


Lightning in a Bottle

by odetteandodile



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Body Modification, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Comic Book Science, Hand Jobs, Hitchhiking, M/M, Post-Avengers (2012), Protective Steve Rogers, Road Trips, Shrunkyclunks, Smoking, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve's post-ice road trip of sadness, Storm Chaser AU, Storm Chaser Bucky Barnes, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, restless nights in one night cheap hotels, so does bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-11-28 17:41:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 63,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20970473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/odetteandodile/pseuds/odetteandodile
Summary: The problem, Steve thinks, isn’t so much his motorcycle giving up the ghost on a lonely stretch of highway through a lonely stretch of the country. He doesn’t mind stretching his legs or the prospect of hitchhiking.Theproblemis the roiling black blanket of storm clouds slowly spreading itself over the landscape headed his direction…Steve Rogers is looking to hitch on a highway abandoned by everyone smart enough to avoid a looming storm. Bucky Barnes is the professional storm chaser who offers him a ride.It gets more complicated from there.





	1. It's Hard to Say Who You Are These Days

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the 2019 Captain America Big Bang, with thanks to all the wonderful moderators for putting on this event! 
> 
> Thanks also to HeyBoy [(tumblr)](https://heyboydraws.tumblr.com/) [(ao3)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyBoy/pseuds/HeyBoy) and velvetjinx [(twitter)](https://twitter.com/velvetjinx) my awesome artists, keep an eye out for their work! Thanks both of you for choosing this story and creating such lovely visuals for it! 
> 
> I'm grateful also for calendulaes for betaing, and for deisderium and spacebuck for cheering this piece on when it needed a boost.
> 
> This will be posting one chapter a day until October 20th. Check out the accompanying [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/303NgOJllxCudb1rJyPEV2?si=rDQhKB8CRfulFpwgn8OO_w) too, if you're into that sort of thing!

The problem, Steve thinks, isn’t so much his motorcycle giving up the ghost on a lonely stretch of highway through a lonely stretch of the country. He doesn’t mind stretching his legs or the prospect of hitchhiking. 

The _problem_ is the roiling black blanket of storm clouds slowly spreading itself over the landscape headed his direction. 

When he’d ditched the bike, it had been with the vague thought that he’d start walking long enough to hitch a ride to the next town. (He realizes belatedly that he’d have a better idea of where that is if he hadn’t left his map in his saddle bag). In fact Steve had felt a little bit of righteous vindication when he’d dropped a pin and sent the terse text message informing Tony: _bike dead here. Feel free to have it towed if you think it’s worth it._ While Steve had wanted to pick out a vehicle himself, Tony had insisted on providing him with one instead. And then _insisted_ that Steve contact him and only him if there were any problems. So Steve’s not above the small petty satisfaction of dropping it back in Tony’s lap to deal with. 

This road hasn’t exactly hummed with other vehicles since he left Oklahoma City, but it had seemed like reasonable odds he’d be able to catch a ride within an hour or two. But he’s been walking now for almost three without catching sight of another soul—and as the wind begins to whip his hair into his eyes and cut through his leather jacket, he realizes why. 

In his pocket, the Stark phone pings a couple of times in rapid succession, and Steve pulls it out with an aggrieved sigh. 

**Stark, Tony**: _I’ll get somebody on it. You anywhere near Albuquerque? I got a guy in Albuquerque._

**Stark, Tony**: _Nevermind, you’re in Oklahoma. Well if you can get to Albuquerque you can get the bike there. If not use that gold card on me, sorry bud._

**Romanoff, Natasha**: _Tony says his bike died on you. Assuming you’re not waiting around for him to get his shit together. Let me know if you get into any trouble hitching (no I do not think you can’t handle yourself)._

Steve huffs and twists to shove the useless phone down into his backpack where it’ll be properly muffled by his spare clothes. 

_One foot in front of the other_, he tells himself. It’s an old mantra. One from the days when making a trek on foot even through the city was sometimes an ordeal for him, when he had to force himself just to make it home. Collapsing in the middle of a hike isn’t a likely outcome for him anymore. Technically, he could hoof it all the way into whatever the next patch of civilization is without breaking a sweat, even in a storm. But that doesn’t mean he’s excited about the prospect. 

When he’d set out on the bike from the still half-destroyed tangle of New York following the rout of the Chitauri, Steve hadn’t thought he could feel any more alone out here than he did surrounded by the bustling chaos of being a celebrity Avenger. But there’s something about the vast emptiness of the horizon out here that gets into your bones. It’s like somebody reached into his chest and pulled out the lonely feeling there and made it into a landscape all around him. 

Steve almost—_almost_—considers calling Natasha. For most of this trip the phone has felt like an annoying tether to everything he’s trying to get a break from, a fishhook connected to a line just waiting to reel him back before he’s good and ready. Now he thinks he might like having some kind of anchor as the clouds ahead begin to take on a crackling blue around the edges. But he doesn’t know what he’d say. Natasha’s offer, while he knows it to be sincere, was of the practical kind. To give tactical support if needed, not to chat. If he’d wanted her company he could’ve stayed at Stark Tower. 

He sighs, breathing in a deep lungful of air, full of the scent of wet earth. As a kid, he’d dreamed about getting to travel like this (well, not exactly like _this_, but close enough). New York City is a world unto itself, then and now. And Steve had consumed photographs of these other places in his textbooks and the pages of National Geographic he’d flip through at the newsstand before the guy told him to buy something or shove off. It had all seemed so _big_. The plains (in sorry state then, but no less mysteriously fascinating), the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone, The Badlands. Like places out of science fiction. 

In his days touring as Captain America: Dancing Monkey of the USO, he’d glimpsed bits of them through the windows of the tour bus that had only increased the longing. He’d sketched frantically in his little notebook, trying to memorize the lines and textures flying past him and thinking about what it would be like just to step off the bus and really drink his fill. 

In that, at least, Steve can’t say he’s been disappointed. Things _are_ wilder out here—nature asserts itself on a different scale unencumbered by the trappings of humanity.

For example, in New York the rain can creep up on a guy between the maze of buildings. Maybe you know it’s coming sometime, heralded by cloud cover—but it’s nothing like this, watching the line of it rumbling up to you in a hissing wall. Steve hunches his shoulders as the veil reaches him, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. 

He’s thoroughly drenched in a matter of minutes, and the shoulder of the highway is similarly liquefied under his boots, slipping and sliding away from his feet and forcing him to step back out onto the solid pavement of the road. 

It occurs to him that whatever else being Captain America has brought him, Steve will never be able to take for granted the relief of knowing that pneumonia and whatever else are no longer sitting on his doorstep, waiting for an opportunity like this to barge in on him and take over his body. 

Across the horizon, several bright forks of lightning light up Steve’s periphery, followed almost at once by a resounding rumble of thunder that seems to shake the very highway. 

So it’s thanks to the thunder and the blur of rain (or so Steve tells himself) that he doesn’t hear the truck coming up behind him on the road until just before he’s forced to leap out of its path. 

Steve’s boots slip again in the muddy rivulets running into the ditch beside him, and he’s thankful for the preternatural balance that keeps him from falling on his ass into it. But he’s distracted enough by it that he looks up surprised when he realizes that the truck is coming to a hard stop in the middle of the highway. The taillights flick on as the thing reverses, skidding to a halt again beside where he stands. 

Steve waits with a bemused expression as the driver rolls down the passenger window. 

"Hey buddy, you uh...noticed there's kind of a storm going on?" 

Steve raises his eyebrows and can't help the huff of a laugh he lets out. 

"Yeah...yeah I might have um—caught wind of it." 

It's the driver's turn to give a startled bark of laughter. 

"Weather puns? I'm surprised you're not a little more stressed man. You break down or something? Where the fuck did you come from?" 

Steve shifts on the balls of his feet, taking a tentative step toward the truck to lean on the the open window, blinking rain out of his eyes to get a better look at the driver. 

He's youngish, in Steve's estimation. Though he realizes that he doesn't have the best sense of that these days, what with the fact that age looked a lot different when he was growing up and also the fact that he's technically in his nineties and has accepted that time is meaningless. Still the driver looks maybe just shy of thirty, if Steve were forced to use his trained intelligence gathering skills to guess. Not quite shoulder-length brown hair falls shaggy around his face, and he's got a couple days worth of stubble on his cheeks and jaw. 

Steve would normally be able to take in more detail than that at a glance, figure out who he's dealing with quickly and efficiently, but now--now he's distracted by the strange contents of the truck drawing his eyes away from its driver. 

The whole back of it is filled with odd electrical equipment, little blinking red and green lights and a blue lit screen flash at different frequencies. It’s not any kind of farming or ranching equipment Steve’s familiar with, and that makes it unusual in this context.

Steve realizes that the driver's eyes are on him, eyebrows raised. "I—sorry, what was that?" 

The driver laughs a little, and leans across the wide front seat to tug on the door handle, pushing the door one-handed so that Steve has to take a step back to let it swing open. 

"I said—either way you'd better hop in before you float away." 

Steve can't argue with that as another resounding clap of thunder booms around them. He climbs into the passenger seat and shuts the door, feeling instantly guilty for the pooling water running off of his drenched clothes and the backpack at his feet onto the upholstery and floor of the truck. 

"Sorry about—I'm getting everything all wet." 

The man shrugs. "Kinda the point of why you shouldn't keep walking around in it right?" He eyes Steve curiously for a moment. "So—where'd you come from? This is pretty hell and gone from anywhere to be on foot. Especially with that," he nods in the direction of the storm front, which is making faster and faster advances toward them as they sit talking. "Most people knew enough to stay indoors today. But you don't look like you're from around here...?" He trails off, leaving the question hanging in the air. 

Steve shifts uncomfortably. "Was on my bike, just passing through. Broke down about...maybe fifteen miles back? Thought I'd start walking 'til I could hitch with someone but uh...not a lot of people out today. Like you said." 

The man laughs again, good-naturedly. "You got that right pal. Where you headed?" 

"Anywhere," Steve says, a little too quickly. "I mean, it doesn't matter really. Albuquerque, eventually, I guess. But I can find what I need wherever you're going, if you don't mind letting me ride along for a little while."

A crooked grin spreads across the man's face, and Steve is suddenly aware that he's quite handsome. City handsome even, in a way Steve hasn't encountered much out here. There's a sharpness to his face and his expressions that doesn't seem to grow organically in the soil of farmlands. He brushes the thought away as irrelevant. 

"Well, where I'm headed is gonna be a bit of a mixed bag for you I'm afraid," he says, eyes bright over the sideways grin. "You know what they say when there's no way around it and no way over it?" 

Steve's mind scrambles to catch what he's getting at, and his eyes flick to the now constant flash of lightning ahead. "You have to go through it?" 

"Right on the money." He says, white teeth flashing as he turns back to the wheel and puts the truck in gear. He gives Steve a sideways look. "What do you say, you game?" 

Steve plants his feet a little firmer on the floorboards. "I'm game." 

"Then buckle in—it'll get a little bit worse before it gets a whole lot cooler, I can promise you that." 

*

Bucky Barnes is a storm chaser. 

He's been a storm chaser in one way or another for just about half his life—the product of a directionless youth growing up in Indiana, before his family relocated to the suffocating confines of Brooklyn. But he's had the pleasure of being paid to do it professionally for the last eightish years. And he's been paid _well_ for the past two. 

He loves it. 

There's nothing like the headlong rush of driving directly toward something that has everyone else around you fleeing the other direction. It's a sense of invincibility and terror he hasn’t found to exist anywhere else. The utter human vulnerability clashing hot and sharp with the soaring arrogance of plunging forward despite all the evolutionary inheritance of your cells telling you to turn around and _run_. It's brilliant. 

Normally, the kind of weather event he's got ahead of him today wouldn't necessarily light his fire like this. Used to be he'd only bother with electrical storms if there was something else to sweeten the deal. When he was freelancing as a photographer or occasionally for the local news, it was only tornadoes that really paid the big bucks (and he uses that phrase with full sarcasm). 

But things have changed. And the lightning he can see snaking down to lick the flat horizon makes his nerves crackle with sympathetic electricity and anticipation. 

It's been about an hour since he saw the last vehicle headed all-out in the other direction away from the storm—local weather channels have been warning everyone to be on lockdown since last night, so nobody is out and about braving the mess now that it's arrived. 

Which is why he's surprised by the figure that appears as if my magic between sheets of rain, leaping out of the highway ahead of him before Bucky has to jerk the wheel to avoid him.

His delayed reaction as he registers how close he came to hitting someone in the last place he'd expect is to slam on his brakes, skidding to a stop in the middle of the road. He takes a deep breath as his heart thuds. What the _hell_ is that guy doing out in this? _On foot?_ Bucky deliberately unclenches his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and eyes the figure in his rearview, as much as he can make out through his back wiper. He’s no farmer, and he’s not a bum either. Even from here Bucky can tell that the leather jacket that he’s wearing is sleek, cut for style more than functionality. But it’s his posture more than anything that stands out. The jacket is stretched over incredibly broad shoulders, and he stands still regarding the truck, back straight. 

Whoever he is and however inappropriately unperturbed he seems about his situation, Bucky doesn’t think he can leave him out here in the middle of all this in good conscience. 

Bucky puts the truck in reverse. He backs up to a stop beside where the guy stands on the shoulder and rolls down his window.

"Hey buddy," Bucky calls, and the guy takes a tentative step forward, "you uh—noticed there's kind of a storm going on?"

*

Bucky's isn't certain that it's a good idea to take an unsuspecting hitchhiker out on a job with him. But he is certain that even if the guy has no idea what he's in for, he really will be safer in Bucky's truck than standing out in the open where Bucky had found him. Anyway, the guy said he was game. And Bucky can apologize later when he finds out just what he was signing himself up for.

Actually, Bucky thinks, eyeing him out of the corner of his eye as the truck hurdles along toward the heart of the lightning strikes, he doesn't look as nervous as he'd expect any normal person to be at the prospect that lies ahead. In fact, he doesn't look nervous at all. Bucky turns his head to consider him more fully, confident that the chance of there being any more obstacles to avoid in the middle of the flat, straight highway is unlikely.

Aside from the water dripping off of his clothes and hair, he looks remarkably put together. Up close Bucky’s initial impression of his leather jacket is confirmed. But now he notices the rest of the ensemble underneath it and his impression of "out of place" increases—absurdly the man seems to be sporting khakis, a light-colored button-down tucked in at the waist, and a pair of totally inappropriate boots. They're not made for mud or work, barely made for handling a motorcycle which is what he'd said he was on before he took off on foot.

"I'm Bucky, by the way," Bucky says, tipping his chin up at the guy, who glances over at him quickly. "Sorry, didn't catch your name?"

The guy swallows, an almost nervous expression on his face. "Ah—it's—nice to meet you. I'm Steve." He sighs, looking away out the windshield of the truck. "Steve Rogers."

It takes Bucky a moment to place why the name is familiar, but when he does he lets out a short bark of laughter. "Steve Rogers—Captain America? Are you shitting me?"

The guy—Steve—ducks his head. And that, strangely, is what convinces Bucky that he's on the level and not messing with him. He recognizes the gesture from the few news clips of interviews he got around to watching after that mess a few months ago in New York. He'd thought it was incongruous then, too—and oddly endearing.

"Yeah," Steve says heavily. "But I'm not on the job at the moment."

"No shit," Bucky says. "Not much to interest an Avenger out here."

"Think not?" Steve asks, looking over at him again.

Bucky shrugs. "Just my two cents. But feel free to correct me if I'm wrong."

"No, you're not wrong."

His tone is strained. Bucky turns that over in his mind. It's clear Captain America isn't happy about being recognized. Maybe he's not even happy about interacting at all. He certainly looks uncomfortable, with deep lines that set in around his mouth the moment Bucky had uttered the name.

"Steve then," Bucky says lightly, fixing his eyes ahead, "it okay if I just call you that?"

"I—yeah," Steve says, sounding surprised. "That's...that's good. Thanks. And thanks again for the lift."

"At the risk of sounding particularly uncharitable, don't mention it. I probably wouldn't have offered if there was any chance of someone else coming by to offer. And if you weren't in danger of bodily harm as the tallest thing on the ground out there in a storm like this." Bucky pauses. "Though actually knowing who you are, you'd probably have been okay."

Steve darts him a glance, and Bucky smirks back. Steve's concerned expression relents a degree, furrows in his brow smoothing a little as he tries out his own tentative smile. 

"Probably. But in my experience what doesn't kill you sometimes still hurts like a sonofabitch in the meantime."

Bucky snorts outright at that, and Steve's face clears the rest of the way, the half smile giving way to a real one. "I'll take your word for it."

"Good idea—don't try this at home, as the kids say."

Bucky chuckles again, and it feels like the air inside the truck is lighter as some of the tension in Steve's frame evaporates.

"Hey about that," Bucky says, chewing on his bottom lip for a moment. "Um...I know I warned you we're going through the storm but that's not quite the...whole caveat. With accepting a ride from me."

Steve's body twists in his seat as he angles himself toward Bucky, throwing a sharp look at the bank of instruments and gadgets in the truck bed behind him. "Anything to do with all this?"

"Yeah. We're going through it but we're uh—gonna be making a pit stop first. In it."

Steve takes in a deep breath, but not an anxious sounding one. "Well," he says after a moment. "Not exactly what I was planning for my sightseeing today—but I'm still game. Guessing not a lot of people get this kinda tour when they plan their Route 66 road trip."

"No," Bucky agrees, "not a lot. I'll try to give you something to write home about, huh?"

Steve snorts. "You can try."

Bucky imagines that if he had picked up a hitchhiker who turned out to be Captain America on a clear day, he probably would have spent a little bit more time marveling at it than he currently has the capacity to do. But right now, today, his truck is steadily eating up the distance between them and the storm and he really needs to focus on that.

He has, all things considered, a fairly loose set of instructions from his current employer about what kind of data they ultimately want from him. 

But Bucky isn't an idiot, and he _is_ good at knowing when one of these storms is more than an average weather event. 

Two years ago New Mexico had been ripped apart by strange forces which were then never spoken of again. A month after that, Bucky had been contacted by a representative from Blackstone and offered an absurd amount of money (and a few other ah—incentives) to basically keep doing what he was doing at dirt cheap freelance prices before. He's smart enough to know that when the wind takes on a certain unearthly tinge, and the lightning strikes hit with a force unlike anything he used to see in the old days--those are the ones he'd better make damn sure he gets in the middle of.

So he doesn't have even a few minutes right at this exact juncture to ponder the presence of a soggy Avenger in his passenger seat. That will have to wait.

A few minutes later the tuck breaks through the edges of the rain. The bank of clouds above and around them form a black, oppressive mass that hide the expanses of the horizon. Inside the storm, the landscape is lit with an eerie blue, and the silvery-green lightning forks down in a near constant rhythm on all sides letting Bucky know he's reached the right position.

"Hold on," he remembers to warn Steve.

He doesn't watch to see if Steve heeds him as he knocks the truck into four-wheel-drive and yanks the wheel to take them off the road into the muddy stretch of grassland beside them.

Steve's right hand flies up to brace himself against the roof of the cab, but that's his only apparent reaction to the turn of events.

The truck trundles along, engine roaring at the extra effort of pushing through the wet soil, until Bucky estimates that they're about where they need to be for the best exposure in the next two to five minutes. He throws the truck into park and shoulders his door open to leap out.

He drops the tailgate of the truck, reaching for his bundle of specialized rods. As he drags the heavy pile toward himself, he suddenly finds the weight lessening with the help of another set of hands. Bucky glances up sharply, and Steve looks back rather impassive.

"Tell me where you want them!" Steve raises his voice to be heard over the deafening thunder.

Bucky only hesitates for a moment, because a moment is all they have, before he lets Steve take the whole bundle into his arms, the weight apparently not even registering.

"This way!" Bucky shouts back, gesturing.

Steve scrambles after him, and catches on surprisingly fast as Bucky starts placing the rods, using the post driver to jam them into the soft soil at three foot intervals.

They're placing the second to last when they hit their first success further up the line, a bright tongue of lightning striking the third rod in the row, searing light crackling its way down the length of the wires connecting it back to the equipment in the truck bed.

Bucky can't help the wild, maniacal smile on his face as he watches.

"Come on!" he yells, tugging on Steve's arm, "Last one!"

Steve follows him at once, and a detached corner of Bucky's mind remarks that having an assistant unfazed by certified Weird Shit is pretty useful. With the last post set, Steve turns to him with no more than an eyebrow raised in silent question. Bucky wraps his hand around Steve's elbow and nudges him back toward the truck, the two of them setting back at a jog.

Bucky hops up to sit on the open tailgate and pulls the handheld energy reader into his lap.

"What now?" Steve asks, climbing up to sit beside him.

Bucky grins, squinting at him against the persistent flare of white all around them.

"Now," he says, turning to crook one leg up under him and tipping the screen of the reader toward Steve, "we enjoy the show."

*

Steve spares only a cursory glance at the screen of the device on Bucky's lap. He can guess well enough at its purpose, and it doesn't interest him quite as much as the vibrant, unbridled expression on Bucky's face.

So far this experience doesn't even touch the top ten strangest or most dangerous things Steve's done in his life. But he imagines that it would for most people. And he's fascinated by Bucky's response to it—something that looks a lot like joy.

Bucky tosses the device onto the tailgate between them, and fumbles in the pocket of his windbreaker, pulling out a slightly crumpled pack of cigarettes.

His hands are trembling a little and it takes several shaky clicks of the lighter to get his cigarette lit, hand cupping around the flame to block the wind. But it's not, as far as Steve can tell, from fear.

Bucky takes a long drag on the cigarette, red tip flaring bright as his cheeks hollow around it. For a moment Steve's eyes feel magnetized to the shape of Bucky's mouth and he notes again how sharp the other man's cheekbones and jaw are under the shadow of stubble. Steve looks away as Bucky blows out a long stream of smoke with a sigh of satisfaction. But his gaze is drawn back almost at once. _Just professional curiosity_, he tells himself. Only because he hasn't figured Bucky out yet, and it behooves him to determine just what kind of person he's traveling with, even if it's only briefly.

Bucky looks over, noting Steve's gaze on him, and he flicks ash away from the end of the cigarette before taking another drag.

"Sorry," he says, a lingering tendril of smoke puffing out with the words. "I know it's a bad habit—does it bug you?"

"Nah. My day everybody smoked everywhere, ya know. I'm still getting used to the fact that I'm _not_ surrounded by a cloud of it everywhere I go these days."

Bucky laughs, and though the sound is swallowed by another roll of thunder, Steve tracks the ripple of it over Bucky's features—fine lines around his eyes crinkling as nose scrunches too.

"That's right, I forgot." He takes another long inhale. He nods down at the pack and lighter beside him, "You want one? Help yourself. We'll be here a little while yet."

Steve's going to refuse politely. It's not like _he_ smoked much, even back in the day, not with his asthma, and even later in the army when cigarettes were precious and he'd decided he wouldn't start up a habit if other guys wanted them worse than him. But then his eyes flick again to the shape of Bucky's mouth dragging in another lungful, and there is something so appealing about it that Steve decides he must be craving a cigarette after all.

"Thanks," he says, reaching out to tap one from the pack.

Steve closes his eyes as he takes his first drag, savoring the new/old slide of heat at the back of his throat and the taste of tobacco on his tongue. God, when was the last time he'd smoked one? For a moment he can't remember. Then it hits him—of course. He'd been sitting in the back of a covered troop truck with the Howlers the night before they'd raided Schmidt's final base. He'd passed it back and forth with Falsworth, and he can picture each of their faces circled round, laughing and joking over the undercurrent of pre-battle nerves. 

It wasn't so long ago, really. Only a lifetime.

Steve opens his eyes again, letting the hot flare of lightning striking the line of rods around them burn into his retinas instead to drive the memory from them.

He realizes Bucky's eyes are on him, and quickly schools his face into something neutral.

"Good?" Bucky asks. Steve wonders how long he was watching, and what he thinks he saw.

Steve nods. "Been a while."

"Yeah," Bucky says. "I only smoke on the job these days. I'd quit for real but I get too jumpy during this part, waiting it out. Haven't found anything else that works so well."

"I guess," Steve says, then clears his throat, blaming the cigarette for the rasp in his voice. "I guess it's pretty frowned on now."

Bucky shrugs, stubbing out the end of his smoke before reaching for another. "Yeah. I mean, I'm a millenial so I get it—I'm not a smoker because I haven't heard that it might be bad for you. Some things you just do anyway." He laughs again, and waves a hand around them as a particularly violent branch of light strikes nearby. "Guess that's a theme of my life choices huh?"

Steve's mouth quirks up in a wry half-smile, and he lifts the cigarette for another tentative puff. This one goes down easier, and isn't accompanied by quite the same assault of sensory memory, so he takes another. "Guess so."

They subside into silence for several long minutes. Bucky continues to smoke and Steve continues to try not to watch him. He has to relight his cigarette twice when he forgets about it and it goes out.

Bucky holds his cigarette between two fingers, Steve notes. Steve holds his high on the filter between his thumb and middle finger like they all used to when they were sharing. Or maybe it's because nobody smokes unfiltered anymore so there's more room to hold it loosely. It doesn't look weird or anything, it just seemed like something worth taking note of. Apparently.

After a while, the near constant flashes of lightning down the line of rods begin to ebb, forks of white blinking away further out over the horizon as the previously impenetrable mass of black cloud above them starts to shift and thin. Soon enough, Steve realizes he can hear the sound of his own breathing again, and that the wind isn't carrying away the smoke from his mouth with the same force it was a few minutes before.

Beside him, Bucky groans and stretches, arms reaching toward the sky to crack his back, half-finished cigarette dangling from his lips. He gives a huff as he relaxes, slumping back on one hand and taking a final languid drag on his smoke before stubbing it out.

"Guess we're pretty much finished here." Bucky glances over his shoulder at the bank of equipment in the truck. He twists around and pulls himself into a crouch in front of it, and Steve watches with renewed interest as he clicks open the sleek front of one of the machines. Bucky pulls out what appears to be a metal tube, about a foot in length and four inches in diameter, peering at a series of three green lights on the front. He nods decisively to himself and slides it back into place before Steve can get a really good look, shutting the door again. "Yeeeah good enough for a Wednesday." Bucky turns back to Steve and hops down to the ground beside the tailgate. "Let me clean up a bit and get this stuff stored, and then we can get out of here."

"I'll help," Steve says, discarding his own cigarette and hastily hopping down beside Bucky.

Bucky gives him a considering look. "Thanks," he says after a moment. 

He sets off toward the furthest lightning rod, and Steve trails in his wake.

It takes longer to disassemble and store the equipment than it had to place it, but Steve imagines part of that feeling is down to the fact that they don't have excited adrenaline fueling the reverse process. Each lightning rod gets wiped down, the thick bundle of cables connecting them wrapped delicately around the stem before Bucky allows them to be placed back in their bag.

At last, Steve heaves the heavy duffel into the bed of the truck, and Bucky slams the tailgate shut with a grunt of approval.

They both climb back into their respective sides of the truck cab, and Bucky shucks his windbreaker, wiping the back of his arm across his forehead. Steve slips his arms out of his own jacket, tucking it on top of his backpack between his feet. He shoots a sideways glance at Bucky’s mud-splattered t-shirt before also undoing the top couple buttons of his shirt too. His clothes are still a little damp from his walk in the rain earlier, but between the efforts with the storm equipment and the still air in the truck, he feels quite warm anyway.

The engine revs, and Bucky sets the truck trundling back in the direction of the highway much more deliberately than the pace at which they'd left it.

"That was..." Steve says after a few moments of quietly speeding along the highway. There's blue sky in front of them now, and sunlight. It's still only late-afternoon, Steve realizes with bemusement. There's still half a day left up there ahead. "That was really something. You do that a lot?"

Bucky's mouth twists into a grin and he takes his eyes off the road to look at Steve. "Often as I can."

"Seems...exciting."

Bucky laughs, head tipping back against the headrest of his seat. "You know what? Coming from you that almost sounds like a compliment."

Steve ducks his head, smiling.

"Where are you headed anyway Steve?"

Steve shuffles his feet. "Like I said—anywhere. Just drop me off in the next town and I'll—I'll find my way."

"Sure," Bucky says, lightly. "But I mean after that, where were you on your way to? What are you doing out here and not..." he trails off, leaving the unspoken _not in New York_ hanging between them. "Just, what brings you this way, I mean."

Steve chews on the inside of his cheek. "I don't—uh. Nowhere in particular I guess. I wanted to...see the country. Get out of the city for a while. I know things have changed all over and I wanted to see what this century's like not...not in New York."

He wishes that the words came out sounding more confident. He could force them to, if he wanted. He's been Captain America long enough to know what that soundbite ought to go like. But the thought of twisting it, even to sound less pathetic in front of this man he doesn't really know, makes him tired. Who cares if he doesn't sound like he has a good reason for any of this? He doesn't, and he _is_ tired. He awoke from Death to find out that to keep living he’d have to fight an enemy using the exact same damn tesseract he’d plunged into the ocean. He’s fucking _tired_. 

Bucky just hums in response, lips pursed in thought.

"You know," he starts, then hesitates, chewing on his bottom lip. "Ah, nevermind."

"What?" Steve asks, eyeing the nervous gesture.

Bucky huffs a laugh and shakes his head. "You said you’re making your way to New Mexico eventually, right? I was just going to say—the forecast is for some pretty interesting stuff, next couple of days. And then I’ve gotta be in Santa Fe sometime next week so I’ll be going out that way. If you don't have anywhere to be you could tag along. If you want. With me."

"Why?" The question is out before Steve even thinks about it. "What would you—" he cuts himself off before he finishes. But the smile on Bucky's face has already dropped, and it's obvious he heard the end of it (_what would you get out of it_) even if Steve didn't say it. Bucky's jaw clenches as he glues his eyes fixedly on the road ahead.

"Forget it. Stupid idea." He says tightly.

Steve's chest knots a little harder at Bucky's tone, angry at himself. He isn't sure when he became somebody who expected everyone around him to have ulterior motives. Maybe it’s from too much time playing at intergalactic politics cloistered away with a bunch of spies and superpowered types. He used to believe in people a lot more.

He reaches for something to say to reset the moment, but comes up empty-handed. If he could would he—would he be interested? In taking Bucky up on it? The storm had been a thrill, it's true. Thrill-seeking isn't really what he came out here for though. But it hadn't been a bad kind, not like the nauseous rush of a fight. It had burned clean. He _had_ set out on this trip to be alone...but looking over at Bucky's tight grip on the wheel and thinking about the fierce, joyful abandon on his face as he'd worked, Steve realizes that may not be true either. He set out _not_ to be with any of the people who'd surrounded him in New York. Spending a couple of days with someone unconnected to all that, someone interesting and new...it doesn't lack appeal. And he could always go his own way again if it turns out to be a bad idea...

Steve takes a breath to say something, smooth it over. But Bucky beats him to it.

"Look, I'm pretty good at my job, Captain," Bucky says, gaze still pointedly forward. "Don't get me wrong, you were more helpful than I'd expect any old hitchhiker to be. But I don't need anything _from_ you."

Steve only partially registers the rest of what Bucky said as the sharp edges of "Captain" catch him like a kick in the teeth.

"It's still just Steve," he says, trying and failing from keeping his shoulders from going absolutely tense.

Bucky does look over then, and his frown eases somewhat. 

"Steve, then," he says. "I don't need anything from you, Steve." 

Maybe it's the use of his first name, or maybe it's the softening of Bucky's tone, but the declaration sounds much kinder the second time. Less, maybe, like a dismissal, and more like reassurance.

"I think," Steve begins slowly, trying not to sound hesitant. Imagine Captain America doing anything hesitantly. "I think I'd like that. If you mean it. I don't have a schedule or anything and I—I wanted to see something new. Definitely never done anything like that before." He tries out a tentative smile. It feels stiff, but not bad. 

Bucky's eyebrows are still pulled together, and he chews at his lip again. "You sure? I mean...it's more of the same, probably." His brow smoothes as Steve nods, and an answering smile creeps over his face. "It really is pretty fucking cool—and hey!—we may even be in for a bit of a twister in the mix, in the storm front I'm headed toward tomorrow. When the conditions are right--there's nothing like it." Bucky stops, checking his enthusiasm, as if Steve might find it off-putting. (Steve finds it anything but.) "And you know, I'll be headed west still, and it’s not hard to hook over to Albuquerque before I swing up north. So I can get you back to—to your sightseeing."

"Yeah," Steve says, leaning back into the passenger seat, letting his stiff-spined posture relax into it. "I'd like that. Thanks...Bucky."

art by heyboy

*

They drive for some time after that, on a highway that seems to slice right down the center of the plain like a knife.

Just about the time the sinking sun begins to redden the fields spreading out on either side of the highway, a town finally grows up from between the wheat and grasses ahead of them.

A small corner of Bucky's mind sets itself ahead to keeping an eye out for a decent looking motel, maybe something with a diner nearby. In the wake of the adrenaline of going out on a job he's usually not good for much but eating his body weight in greasy carbs and falling face first into bed.

The rest of his brain, though, is screaming at him that he should probably be looking instead for a place to drive this truck into a fucking gully and make a break for it.

What the _actual fuck_ was he thinking? Inviting a total stranger he picked up on the side of the road to tag along with him is _one_ thing—it's a very Bucky Barnes level of stupid. He can definitely believe it of himself. But inviting a complete stranger who is also _a national icon_ to—what? _hang out?_ It's beyond even his habitual levels of impulsively dumb things to do. What was he thinking? _What was he thinking?_

Bucky chews on his bottom lip, and casts a sneaky sideways look at Steve, whose profile is looking especially coin-worthy in the golden glow of the setting sun.

He'd been _thinking_, in as much as conscious thought had factored into it at all, about how...forlorn Steve had seemed. Lonely, maybe. Weary, definitely. But how when they'd hit the center of the storm—the fun part, the cool part that Bucky lives for—it had also brought a real legitimate smile to Steve's stoic features. Bucky'd thought maybe the guy had actually enjoyed himself a bit. And that enjoying himself wasn't something Steve took for granted or got a lot of opportunities to do. Bucky's been tired and lonely before, and he'd also honestly had fun sharing his work with someone else who got a kick out of it for the first time in a good long while.

So he'd opened his mouth and asked.

And then it had set in how _fucking inane_ all of those reasons are because sad-faced-Steve is _Captain America_. He's not out here alone because he had nobody who'd offer to spend any time with him, of that Bucky's certain. In fact more likely than not he's out here in the middle of nowhere alone to try and _get away_ from all the people clamoring for his time.

_But_, says a small voice into the fray of self-flagellation going on inside Bucky's head, _he said yes_.

Really, that's what makes it all so perplexing. If Steve had left the conversation where Bucky had expected him to from his initial reaction, Bucky could have dropped him off and spent the next several decades of his life occasionally reliving the humiliation of having told Steve they could hang out if he had nothing better to do, and that would've been that.

But Steve had said yes. So Bucky circles back around to the beginning again with _what the fuck was I thinking._

Maybe this isn't even happening. Maybe he actually got hit by lightning and never made it off the job. Maybe he's dead. He can't say Steve Rogers _wouldn't_ potentially be who he'd like to spend the afterlife kicking around with. But he also isn't really certain he'd have qualified for heaven or whatever place that would happen so that feels unlikely. If he were dead he'd probably be stuck with like...his high school bully. Maybe just someone boring like a former Vice President. _At best_ Bucky's lived an "eternal afterlife with Jake Tapper" level existence.

Bucky risks another look at Steve to reassure himself this weird fever dream is actually happening. A jolt of utter panic lances through him when he finds that Steve's looking back, and his head whips back around to the front way too fast to have been inconspicuous, embarrassed at having been caught. But wait—why was _Steve_ watching _him_? How long was he doing that for? Bucky's brain shorts out and refuses to track a coherent thought about that any further.

Food. Sleep. A shower in between if he can convince himself to make the effort. These are the things he needs before he can properly think through what the next couple days (three? four? a week?) is going to look like with Captain America as his companion.

(It suddenly occurs to him that he's not...entirely sure Richardson or Blackstone in general will be happy about this. Bucky decides immediately that it's in everyone's best interest if he doesn't mention it when he checks in.)

Ultimately Bucky pulls into the parking lot for the first motel he sees, figuring there's a decent chance it's the _only_ one in town anyway since the sign driving in boasted a population of 762 residents. The sign out front declares Vacancy (and color TV in every room!) and there appears to be a diner open across the street. Overall not the worst place he's ever pulled into.

Bucky's body suddenly feels like his bones have hardened into some kind of metal as he unfolds himself from the driver's seat. It's full twilight now, so he reasons that by the time they get a room and eat something it won't be a completely unreasonable hour just to go to bed.

Steve trails him to the door of the motel's main office, and Bucky notes bemusedly that he seems to be trying to shrink in on himself, shoulders hunched. It's not particularly effective. Even with his gold hair hanging lank over his forehead from its earlier rain-drenching and dressed in muddy khakis, he still carries a mantle over him that smacks of the heroic.

"You can hang back, if you want," Bucky says, again not sure what compels him to offer. "I'll take care of the room, if you don't want to um...talk with anybody."

Steve clenches his jaw, but he also nods emphatically, letting a heavy breath out through his nose. "Thanks."

Bucky leaves him behind to hover at the crooked screen door of the place. He puts on a smile for the girl at the desk, who perks up at the sound of the bell on the door. This job probably gets boring out here, Bucky doubts she keeps too busy. Also, Bucky can admit with all humility, he is pretty hot. The look of pleased surprise she's giving him confirms. Bucky's smile widens a little.

"Can I help you?" She asks, sitting straighter behind the counter.

"You sure can," Bucky says, letting just a little bit of an affected panhandle twang creep into his words. He feels self-conscious about it, knowing Steve's probably listening. But when you've had as many of these kind of interactions as Bucky's had living on the road, you get tired of explaining what the hell you're doing out here when your accent immediately gives you away. Sometimes he just doesn't feel like having that conversation, and a little linguistic camouflage goes a long way. "Lookin' to book a double. Just the one night. Got anything open?"

"Sure thing sweetie," the girl drawls back, and tosses her blonde ponytail over her shoulder. "Just gimme an i.d. and a quick minute, we'll get you right into somethin'."

Bucky digs his driver's license and Blackstone expense card out of his wallet and slides them across the counter. The girl accepts it, and starts tapping away into the ancient desktop between sidelong looks at Bucky. He smiles pleasantly but pretends not to notice or give off a vibe that he’s interested in beyond courteousness.

"And the other name for the room?" She asks, now _not_ making eye contact. "Will that be Mrs. Barnes?"

Bucky smiles and shakes his head. "No, my buddy uh—" he halts, suddenly realizing Steve might not be thrilled about having his name on record. For that matter _he_ isn't sure he wants Steve's name on record on a room he's charging to his Blackstone card. His mind scrambles, "Grant. Um, Grant Rogers." Bucky takes a moment to wonder at the fact that somewhere in the recesses of his memories he for some reason stored and was able to produce Steve's middle name. He's not going to examine that too closely.

The girl smiles broadly. "Well then here y'are James" she says, handing him back his cards and a pair of keys. "Number 107 all the way down on the right. Hope you enjoy your stay. And if you need anything I'm here 'til nine. Could always stick around too if I need to," she adds with a meaningful raise of an eyebrow.

Bucky smiles back with as much bland politeness as he can. "Thanks very much, I'm sure everything will be just fine."

"Okey doke, but you just let me know."

"Have a good evening!" Is Bucky's reply. She looks a little disappointed but not too put out, and Bucky chuckles to himself as he pushes back out of the creaky screen door to the front porch.

Steve starts back from where he's lurking behind the door, looking guilty, the tips of his ears going a little pink. "All set?" he asks.

"All set. You wanna head across the street first? I'm starved." 

The diner isn't packed, but it's not quite as empty as Bucky had unconsciously expected it to be either. There's a couple people in booths that are clearly regulars from town based on their rapport with the one older waitress, and two guys at the counter who look like they're probably truckers on their way through.

The waitress shows Bucky and Steve to a booth near the back, and it doesn't escape Bucky that Steve automatically steps forward to take the side where he can face the door.

Dinner is a bit of a quiet affair. Bucky doesn't read much into Steve's silence, since it's not exactly like he's holding up his end of the conversation either. He's worn out and hungry.

And honestly, as much as he told himself he invited Steve along because Steve seemed lonely, Bucky's spent pretty much the past couple years on the road on his own as well. In fact the last job he worked with a team--a rare stint during tornado season with a local news crew--was nearing three years ago. So it's not like Bucky is Mr. Extrovert these days either.

They put away a greasy cheeseburger, fries, and a shake apiece (Steve orders his with an extra patty to boot though which is mildly impressive).

Bucky is halfheartedly swirling the last, melty remains of his chocolate shake at the bottom of his glass, contemplating whether he has space in his stomach to finish it off when Steve clears his throat awkwardly to speak.

"Um, listen," Steve says, eyes glued deliberately on making patterns in ketchup with a french fry instead of looking at Bucky, "I can uh...I can hang out here or—or make myself scarce somewhere else if you—the girl at the hotel seemed to be—anyway if you wanted, I wouldn't want to cramp your style or anything."

Bucky stares back at Steve for a moment as he fights his post-food haze, nonplussed. Then he barks a startled laugh.

"That's...that's generous of you. Thanks," he says, trying not to laugh any more because Steve is frowning at the french fry now with his jaw set stubbornly. "She doesn't quite have what I'm looking for."

"How do you know? She was pretty," Steve says, a mulish tilt to his mouth. "And she seemed nice."

Bucky nods, suddenly wondering how his life choices brought him to this unreal conversation.

"She was. And she did. Wrong shape though."

Steve does look up now with a perplexed expression. Bucky rolls his eyes and takes in a long-suffering breath.

"She's a she, Steve," he says. Still no spark of Steve getting what he's angling at. "I'm gay. I like men."

Steve's confusion melts at once and his cheeks flame instantly pink. "Oh. Okay." He snaps his mouth shut, looking embarrassed.

Bucky frowns, narrowing his eyes, and really hopes that Steve's flustered reaction isn't what he's afraid it means. "That gonna be a problem?"

"No!" Steve says, eyes widening. He makes a sort of aborted gesture with his hand toward Bucky, but pulls it back and just shakes his head vehemently. "No, not a problem."

Bucky sits back in the booth, crossing his arms over his chest, still feeling the little flare of defensive concern burning through him. "Okay," he says, flatly.

Steve clasps his hands together tight in front of him and hunches his shoulders.

"It really is Bucky, I mean it," he says, tone solemn. His eyebrows knit together with such a serious, defender-of-justice type expression Bucky can't help but want to believe him. "I'm just—not used to it being the kind of thing you can tell somebody you just met. That's all. Honest."

Bucky hesitates, but then uncrosses his arms, nodding. "Yeah. I hear you." He slides out from the booth, throwing a few bills onto the table to cover the meal. Maybe if Steve sticks with him longer than the next day or so he'll figure out how they should be splitting costs, but he rarely uses up his entire per diem allowance anyway so it's not worth it at the moment.

"Bucky—” Steve says, reaching out to touch Bucky's arm, the contact only lasting a moment before he pulls back.

"Don't worry about it Steve, we're good." Bucky says, not letting him finish whatever new stumbling apology he's forming. "Let's go get some rest huh?"

*

Bucky slips away with his toiletries bag into the bathroom as soon as they get back to the motel, leaving Steve alone to kick himself more thoroughly than he'd had a chance to at the diner.

Admittedly they are both a bit worse for wear between the rain and the mud and the sweat from the storm run, so maybe Bucky really was just anxious for a shower and to clean up. Steve still can't help fearing that Bucky was more anxious to escape Steve's company.

Steve can't blame him. He feels completely out of place as he perches on the edge of the second tidily made bed opposite from where Bucky had carelessly tossed his bag when they'd entered. It's an utterly bizarre situation they both find themselves in. Steve's not sure which of them he had shocked more by accepting the invitation in the first place.

It occurs to him that he could just leave. Sneak out while Bucky's in the shower and leave his key on the bed. Steve doubts Bucky would be surprised. But he'd also think it was because Steve was too uncomfortable over sharing space after Bucky had told him he was gay. It's not that, and the thought of Bucky assuming Steve is intolerant is intolerable. A lot of people have made a lot of assumptions about him since he came out of the ice, and one of them has consistently been that a man born in the early part of the twentieth century was going to be upset about certain advancements in sexual mores. He's decidedly not.

In fact if he's honest with himself, Bucky coming out to him so casually has increased his nervous awkwardness. But not for the reasons Bucky would probably ever guess at.

Steve sighs heavily and leans over to tug off his muddy boots so that he can at least sit properly on the bed and look a little bit less like he's planning to make a break for it whenever Bucky comes back out of the bathroom.

He kicks his feet up on top of the ugly blue bedspread and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes.

It's been a long while since Steve was actually…attracted to someone. And much longer since that someone was a man. Not in this century. And before this century there had been only Peggy for a long time, with her stunning wit and alarming brown eyes. He supposes that's one of the reasons there hasn't been anyone else yet. Peggy's wit is still stunning, even now nearing a hundred when she exercises it in urging him to take this second chance to get out and _live_.

But since he woke up there hasn't been time. Or space, he supposes. To just live or to notice someone new in that way. The only people he's really had the chance to interact with in any meaningful way are too wrapped up in the work. The closest he got was the five minutes when he'd met Agent Hill and noted distantly that she reminded him of Peggy with her dark hair and air of capable self-assurance. Then the airborne ship they'd been on had exploded and that was the last he'd thought about that. (It occurs to him now, thinking about _Bucky's_ dark hair and bright, clever eyes that he may have a type).

But before crashing the Valkyrie he'd been Steve Rogers, and now it feels like the only person who survived and came out again is Captain America. And simple human things like attraction and affection aren't in Captain America's script.

So far from it, really, that the possibility hadn't even factored into his escape on this road trip. At best he'd hoped to be by himself and just remember how to exist as a person outside of his Avenger's mantle. To expect anybody else to participate in that process hadn't even entered into his deepest hopes. Which is why he'd been startled into accepting Bucky's tentative offer of something like friendship. And if there’s even a theoretical possibility of something else...the idea that he might, somewhere deep down, crave a connection with someone like Bucky isn't just startling, it's terrifying.

God, he needs to get it together. This really isn't even a _thing_. It would be completely unfair to subject Bucky in any way to him having a crisis over someone handsome just being nice to him.

Unfortunately Steve's fresh resolution to get himself in line is immediately put on temporary hiatus when the bathroom door clicks open and Bucky steps out looking sheepish in just a towel.

"Sorry," he mutters, crossing in front of Steve's bed to his own, "forgot to take my stuff in with me. Used to being alone."

_You and me both_, Steve thinks as he actively tries not to focus on the water dripping from Bucky's slicked-back hair down his back. It's a nice back.

"Don't worry about it."

"I'll get dressed and then it's all yours," Bucky says with a smile, turning with a bundle of clothes in his arms. "The water pressure doesn't even suck, which is a pleasant surprise in one of these places."

"Sounds great." Steve is pretty sure he manages a normal looking, totally appropriate smile in reply.

He halts whatever train of thought is threatening to leave the station as Bucky disappears again into the bathroom. Steve's gotten pretty good at that. There's a lot of things he just doesn't want to think about these days.

Instead he takes it as a cautionary reminder to gather all of his things out of his bag to take into the bathroom for his own shower. Luckily the backpack of supplies he brought with him when he'd left the bike behind was big enough to contain his toothbrush, two changes of clothes, and something to sleep in. If tomorrow's adventure in storm chasing turns out to be as muddy as today's though he's going to have to do laundry somewhere sooner than later. He definitely won't be able to wear today's khakis or shirt again before they're washed.

Steve sits for a few moments on the end of the bed with his bundle clutched in both hands, and jumps up the second the door handle clicks open again. Bucky emerges looking much more relaxed in sweats and a t-shirt, absentmindedly toweling at his hair.

"Have at it.”

Steve just swallows and nods, fleeing past him into the dense, steamed up air of the bathroom.

Happily at least Bucky was right about one thing: the water pressure is well above decent, especially for a bathroom tiled entirely in some ungodly combination of green and mauve. Steve stands with his shoulders hunched under the spray for several long minutes, letting the water wash away the mud and tension in equal measure.

He’s feeling considerably calmer by the time he’s climbed out and pulled on his sleep pants and clean shirt. Steve swipes at the fogged up mirror to clear a circle as he brushes his teeth, giving himself a long look. Even with his hair all over the place from drying it and his lips foamy with toothpaste, he can’t help but think he looks stern. He always looks stern these days. He reaches up and presses with his thumb at the ever present line between his eyebrows, trying to smooth it out. It sort of works. 

Steve lets the condensation recollect again on the mirror, obscuring his face. 

He exits the bathroom to find the room dim, lit only by the low yellow light of one of the two bedside lamps and the flickering glow of the television. The screen is turned to what looks like the local news, but the volume is turned down so that the words fade into a pleasant murmur.

Bucky is slumped most of the way down his pillows, face slack and remote control slipping from where his hand rests on top of the comforter. At the sound of the door shutting behind Steve though he starts back up with a sharp breath, and looks around with bleary eyes.

"Sorry," he says through a yawn, sinking back again, "falling asleep over here."

Steve smiles with a soft huff. "Yeah. I'm pretty beat too."

"Okay if I turn this off?" Bucky asks, gesturing with the remote. Steve nods and pulls back the blankets to climb into bed. As soon as he's settled, Bucky clicks off the table lamp as well, plunging the room into darkness.

There's a rustling of starched bedsheets and pillows as both of them settle down. Steve lies stiffly on his back for the moment, tracing the shadowy shape of the ceiling fan as his night vision adjusts, hands fisted in the blankets over his chest.

As he listens to Bucky's breathing in the quiet, Steve can tell that he's already dropping quickly back to sleep. So he mentally shushes himself, even as he opens his mouth to ask in a low voice, "Bucky, you still awake?"

"Rrmmm?" Bucky mumbles.

"Sorry," Steve says.

"What's up?"

Bucky's voice comes back a little stronger and more awake sounding with the question. So Steve sighs, thinking that if he woke Bucky up for this he'd better see it through.

"I really am sorry—about how I seemed, earlier. When you told me that you're gay." He pauses. Bucky doesn't say anything, but Steve can tell from his breathing that he's awake and listening. "It's good, you know? That you can just...tell somebody that now. That if you tell someone and they react badly it's bad on _them_. I'm not used to that. But I want to be."

Bucky heaves a deep sigh, and his blankets rustle as he rolls over. Steve can just make out the outline of his face against the bright white pillowcase.

"Yeah. Okay. That...makes sense. And I believe you. Must be...must be a lot. That you're still getting used to."

Steve nods, then realizes Bucky can't see it. "There is. But some of it's good stuff like...like that." He holds his breath for a moment, feeling like he's about to tip over a cliff and not sure he'll stick the landing. "I do too, you know. Like men, I mean. Sometimes."

There's a tense silence while Steve waits for Bucky's reaction.

"That," he says at last, then clears his throat, "that was not in your latest biography."

Steve lets out the breath he's been holding in a whoosh of soft laughter. "No, I wouldn't guess it would have been. Not like they actually talked to me to write it."

"I read it," Bucky admits, "when you came back, and it hit the bestseller list again. It didn't wow me. You're already doing a lot better with a lot less words."

Steve laughs again, finding that it comes easier each time, and this time Bucky does too.

"I just didn't want you thinking...well, whatever you mighta been."

"Yeah," Buckys says, almost so softly that Steve doesn't catch it. "You know, things are better. From like...the forties, or whatever. You can tell people. But they still don't always take it so good."

There's clearly a story behind that, and not one Steve has any right to press for. He waits, letting that sentence hang in the air, to see if Bucky offers it up voluntarily.

It's quiet long enough that Steve wonders if Bucky actually has fallen asleep again. Then Bucky sucks in a long breath.

"I grew up in Indiana 'til I was thirteen and we moved to Brooklyn," he says in a rush. "I knew. Before New York. But I didn't really _know_ until then. And I didn't come out to anybody else until I was eighteen and getting ready to leave the house anyway." He clears his throat again. "Leave my dad's roof, I guess is what I mean. Wanted it to feel like I was making the choice, so my ma didn't have to um...see it. If I was gonna get kicked out. Turned out it was the right call. He didn't speak to me for a week. And then the next week I moved out. Now when I call my ma she can say 'dad says hi' and we can both pretend it's true."

"Where did you go?" Steve asks, a little breathless. It feels more intimate than he's earned, these confessions in the dark.

"Went to college for a bit. Dropped out after a couple semesters. I couldn't afford it on my own and it didn't seem smart to take out a buncha loans to keep going." Bucky's voice is weary, recounting an old hurt. "Bounced around the city a bit, worked some odd jobs. Eventually hit the road again, and found out I could make some money chasing storms. Not a lot. But enough for something I loved. And then...well, it's a lot different now."

"I'm sorry Bucky. It shouldn't've been like that."

"Yeah, well." Bucky huffs and flops back over onto his back so that he and Steve are lying in the same position, staring up at the ceiling. "My dad's old-school and shitty and baptist as hell. But it doesn't matter now. I am who I am anyway. And a little because of it, probably."

“I—thank you. For telling me."

There's a pause. "You too. I mean it."

Steve lets another long silence stretch. Eventually Bucky rolls over again onto his side, his back to Steve. Steve sighs and rolls over too, remembering how tired he'd felt back in the diner, and how much his body really does want to sleep.

"Goodnight, Bucky," he whispers before shutting his eyes. 

To his surprise, he hears a softly whispered "Night, Steve," in reply.

art by heyboy

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _And it's hard to say who you are these days_  
_but you run on anyway, don't you baby?_   
_You keep running for another place_  
_to find that saving grace_
> 
> Saving Grace, Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers


	2. When That Storm Comes

Steve wakes up from an uncharacteristically heavy sleep, slightly disoriented.

The generic motel surroundings don't bother him, as they look more or less the same as all the others he's found himself in over the past few weeks of his road trip.

But the presence of a low voice speaking somewhere nearby does. It takes him longer than it should to place the voice is Bucky's, and to recognize that he must be talking softly on a telephone from inside the bathroom.

Steve lies very still in his tangle of bedding (noting distantly that he hopes whatever thrashing he did in the night didn't disturb Bucky). He tries to make out what Bucky's saying, shamelessly enjoying the benefits of his above-average serum-hearing, from where he's locked in the bathroom.

"...dunno, maybe fifty percent capacity? Yesterday was—" Bucky pauses, clearly listening to the person on the other end of the line whose response is unfortunately inaudible even to Steve's ears. "Yeah I'll try. Today should be okay but I'm really thinking the one that's building for Saturday or Sunday looks most promising." He stops again to listen. "Do you think...New York has anything to do with an uptick…?” Steve's ears perk up at that, but Bucky doesn't elaborate, so Steve can only guess at what that means. "Sure Richardson, you're right. What do I know. I've only been doing this for you for two years so I couldn't possibly—” Bucky's voice drips with annoyed sarcasm. "Fine. I have _no idea_ if the Saturday forecast is _any_ different or what Blackstone could _possibly_ want out of it. But I'll make sure to get to it anyway." Another brief silence. "Yeah, will do."

There's a frustrated huff of breath and a smack that Steve thinks is Bucky slamming the phone down on the counter. He hears the tap turn on and Bucky rummaging around in his things, and Steve realizes he'd better get up and moving or else have Bucky exit to find him lying here awake and clearly having eavesdropped on the phone call.

He pulls his clean clothes from his backpack, shucking his pajamas quickly to climb into them. There's a thunk as something falls to the carpeted floor of the motel. It's the Stark phone.

Steve swipes it up, making to shove it back into the backpack with his sleep pants. Then he hesitates. He glances toward the bathroom door where the tap is still running.

Steve has grown decidedly more suspicious in this century, he thinks, trying to turn over what Bucky had actually said on the phone to see if any of it really has any reason to be worrying. He was checking in with his employer, obviously, updating them on the status of his equipment and likely the capacity of the strange metal tubes Steve had glimpsed after the storm yesterday. That shouldn't be odd in itself. It makes sense. But something about the conversation and the tone of it still niggles at the back of his mind in a way he can't put his finger on.

He doesn't want to be jaded, expecting sinister motives in everything he sees. But his instincts have also served him too well in the past to deserve to be written off just because they don't seem logical.

He swipes his thumb across the phone in his hand, making a decision. There isn't much on the thing—not compared to the complex array of widgets (applications, he reminds himself) he's seen on the screen of Tony's or Natasha's. But he knows how to make telephone calls, and he knows how to text, however they might tease him. He opens one now to Natasha, tapping quickly.

_What do you know about a company called Blackstone?_

Steve sends the text, eyes going to the bathroom door as he hears the tap turn off. He slips the phone into his pocket and stands as the handle clicks and Bucky reemerges.

"Oh good, you're up," Bucky says, striding back into the room with his toiletries case in hand. "I want to hit the road pretty soon here. I'm hoping to have time to show you how the equipment actually works a little before we're right in the thick of it this time." He shoves his stuff back into his duffel, then stops, turning with a slight frown. "I mean...assuming you still want to?"

"No—yes! I do. Definitely. And that sounds good," Steve agrees, trying to ignore several small buzzes from his phone going off in his pocket, feeling like there's a neon sign above his head. "I'll just," he points to the bathroom, "finish up. Then I'll be ready whenever you are." Bucky's frown evaporates and he nods. Steve makes a hasty tactical retreat into the bathroom.

Steve pulls the phone from his jeans pocket as soon as the door latches securely behind him.

**Natasha**: _Defense contractor. Military grade mines and handguns mostly, couple of smaller contracts for anti-tank stuff. Smallish company, hits above its weight class around the DOD._

**Natasha**: _It's run by a guy named Hammer. Had a run in with Tony a couple years ago with some shady shit involving his government weapons contract. Real mess. Got indicted but they couldn't make anything stick. Looks like Blackstone is his rebrand._

**Natasha**: _There's nothing that stands out about Blackstone itself at the moment. But Justin Hammer is not a good guy. Didn’t realize he’d snuck back on the scene while we were all busy dealing with New York. I’m going to look more into it._

**Natasha**: _That enough info?_

Steve lets out a very long breath through his nose, pinching the bridge of it with one hand so that he doesn't groan aloud instead.

What exactly is Bucky into here?

He considers just asking Natasha to look into him directly. But the potential violation of doing so makes him shake his head. It feels like such an unreasonable thing to do to someone you don't know—who hasn't asked Steve for anything or really been anything but accommodating of him. No, Steve decides. There's no reason to cross that line. Yet.

_That's enough. Thanks._ He types back to Nat, stomach writhing.

**Natasha**: _Should I be worried about why you're asking_

Steve frowns, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. God, he looks tired for a guy who just woke up from a solid eight hours.

He texts back: _No._

Steve's not even sure that it's a lie, since he doesn't know the answer himself. _Should_ she be worried about this? Should _he_? 

Steve runs back over the brief version of Bucky's life story he'd recounted the night before. It's hard to see where between a little college, a few random jobs, and coming back out to the midwest he would have fit in becoming an evil undercover operative for a shadowy weapons firm. But, he reasons, just because Bucky isn't actively representing Blackstone or even aware of all of its goals doesn't mean he isn't contributing. Lots of people do a lot of things for a paycheck while telling themselves that they don't really have a role to play in whatever the higher consequences are.

Steve sighs and scrubs his hand over his face, putting the phone back into his pocket. He wishes he could ignore this. But he knows himself well enough to know he won't. And he’s seen enough of the world as it is now to know he shouldn’t. 

He brushes his teeth and runs some water and a comb through his hair to get it to lie flat where his pillow had it sticking up at odd angles in back, then shuffles into his fresh clothes. It’s not like he’s been in here _that_ long, but he doesn’t want Bucky to be suspicious. 

When he exits the bathroom, he finds Bucky sitting on the edge of his bed, idly thumbing across his phone screen, bag packed and waiting beside him. 

“Ready?” He asks, looking up at Steve, already standing. 

“Yeah, I’ll just stow this,” Steve says, gesturing to his backpack. Bucky nods, and looks back down at the phone, unpreturbed. 

“There’s a continental breakfast out in the dining room—pretty shitty but we could grab a couple things on our way out,” Bucky gives him a sheepish look. “Sorry I should’ve warned you I don’t usually do a full breakfast or anything, rather hit the road…” 

“That’s fine,” Steve says quickly, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “Don’t worry on my account.” 

“Cool.” Bucky grins and lifts his own bag. “After you then.” 

The “dining room” is a shabby but generally clean little room occupied by only Steve, Bucky, and one loud horsefly battering itself at the window above the breakfast table. Bucky was right in his assessment of the quality, but as Steve suspects they might be the only two people even staying at the motel right now he supposes it’s good enough. He swipes up a couple of individually wrapped muffins and a bottle of orange juice. Bucky only fills a styrofoam cup with coffee, dumps about four packets of sugar in it, and heads for the door. 

“Gonna drop our keys at the front,” he says, holding out a hand. Steve fumbles in his pocket for his copy and hands it over. “Meet you at the truck?” 

Steve nods. As soon as Bucky is gone he shoves another bottle of orange juice and all six of the available granola bars into the front pocket of his backpack. He feels a bit self-conscious, but knows he’d feel worse later if he hit the edges of his hunger before Bucky does and had to ask for another stop or risk getting testy with his unsuspecting companion. His metabolism doesn’t leave a ton of room for skipping meals, or at least not without consequences to his general ability to be civil. Traveling on his own he’s gotten used to eating three square meals in diners or along the road since there was nothing else to keep him to a schedule of any kind. He’ll have to pay more attention to getting enough food for himself now so he can keep to somebody else’s itinerary. 

Bucky is sitting behind the wheel of the truck, engine idling but door ajar when Steve makes his way out into the parking lot. One long leg is crooked up underneath him, the other foot resting on the runner board. He’s on his phone again, a look of concentration on his face. 

Steve stows his backpack in the bed of the truck, careful to tuck it out of the way of the equipment Bucky had used yesterday. 

Bucky looks up when he opens the door to slide into the passenger seat, a brief flicker of almost surprise on his face. He must have been really absorbed with whatever he’s looking at, Steve thinks. But then he smiles, and shows Steve the screen of the phone. At first it just looks like random splotches of glowing color, before he realizes he’s looking at a map—and what must be weather activity color coded on it. 

“That’s where we’re headed—you ready?” Bucky asks, for the second time this morning, an edge of excitement coloring his voice. 

Steve smiles, and lets himself feel a bit of anticipation too. “Let’s go.” 

*

Bucky nudges the dial up a little on the radio, letting Tom Petty’s voice fill up what is otherwise the silence of the truck cabin. He likes Tom Petty—at least, in that ubiquitously comforting way of familiarity. Which is how he feels about most of the music that plays on whatever classic rock/oldies station that’s normally all he can reliably get signal for out here. Or all that he can get signal for that he’s willing to listen to, not being a particular fan of country or ranchera. Not a lot of range out here between cities. 

Bucky shoots Steve a look out of the corner of his eye, looking for some indication of his opinions on his face. Steve is frowning, but that seems to be at the crinkly wrapper of the muffin he’s trying very quietly to unwrap, and Bucky looks away, suppressing a smile. 

Maybe he needs to just make himself forget about the Steve being Captain America thing and deal with the first part of it. How’s he feeling today about his rashly extended invitation to bring a stranger along on his work? That they’ll be spending the next couple of days at least in very close quarters? Not too bad, actually, Bucky muses. It could’ve gone worse. Had seemed like it was going to go sour for a moment there last night. 

But then Steve had come out to him and patched that up. _Steve Rogers_ had said the words “I like men,” to him. 

Damn it, it didn’t work. He lands squarely back at the Captain America issue. 

Bucky wonders now about the silence between them this morning. He hopes Steve isn’t worried Bucky will…will do anything he shouldn’t with that information. 

Whatever “something he shouldn’t” regarding Steve’s interest in men might mean here. The possibilities are rather expansive. 

The obvious fear would be of Bucky sharing that information with, like, anyone else. Which had absolutely not crossed his mind. 

The less obvious potential _shouldn’t_ though, Bucky thinks, glancing again at Steve in profile, is also the one he’d be more likely to fall prey to. Specifically letting that knowledge continue to live, fluttery and unchecked, feeling a lot more like _excitement_ under his ribcage than he has any right to. That wasn’t the point of Steve saying that. And it’s not why Bucky had in turn told Steve a little bit about himself in the wake of the revelation. 

There’s an opening here to be a good friend to someone who doesn’t seem like he has as many as he could use. And isn’t that enough to be getting on with? 

Bucky allows himself a small snort and shake of his head, letting the sound be covered by the high whine of—Axl Rose? maybe?—singing for all he’s worth from the radio. Honestly trying to befriend anyone is _more_ than enough to put Bucky out of his depth. It’s not like he has a lot of recent relevant experience in the exercise. He’s not sure he remembers how to do it. Maybe friending isn’t at all like riding a bicycle—he doesn’t feel like he has the muscle memory of it anymore. 

In fact on that basis the hookup script, while not _terribly_ recent in his mind, would at least have been more familiar and straightforward. He’d even gone ahead and gotten them a shared room at the motel which now in retrospect was maybe totally weird?? Oh no. But he couldn’t exactly have charged two on his Blackstone card…maybe he should let Steve get his own tonight. But is the precedent set and that would just make it weirder now to change it? God. 

If Steve had just been a happily handsome accident he’d picked up and then hooked up with last night Bucky would know what to do now and how to let him down gently saying tagging along wouldn’t actually be a good idea, and Bucky would’ve just dropped him at the bus stop in town before heading out. Then again, Steve is Captain America, so once again the whole thing goes sideways in Bucky’s head. He couldn’t have just dropped _Captain America_ at the bus even if they had hooked up in a grimy motel. Especially if they had. No! Bucky resolutely refuses to think about that any harder, that was the whole _point_. Shit. He might be spiraling out here. 

He feels himself starting to panic a little, and hopes he doesn’t look too wild-eyed as he forces himself to relax his grip on the steering wheel. 

He’s gotta say something. The silence is making him crazy. He can’t treat Steve like anyone else, because Steve isn’t anyone else—but Steve clearly doesn’t want to be treated like the celebrity he’s been since he came back either. What’s a guy with rusty interpersonal skills to do with a social Gordian knot like this? 

Bucky looks over at Steve again, and this time the motion is a little too jerky to be subtle so Steve looks back at him and gives him a bland, polite kind of smile. And that does it for Bucky. He takes his foot off the gas and lets the truck coast along, slowing down as he eyes the side of the highway for someplace to pull off. 

“We stopping?” Steve asks, eyes back on Bucky. Bucky keeps his on the road this time. 

“Yeah we’re um,” he clears his throat. “Probably an hour and a half, maybe two hours out. Figure it’ll be easier to show you all the stuff before we hit the rain.” He nods out the windshield toward the thin line of darkness just visible in the distance. 

“Oh, yeah good idea,” Steve says, shifting his seat a little and zipping the front pocket of his backpack closed. He looks like he thinks Bucky is going to be expecting him to leap from the moving truck. But maybe he’s just a guy who likes to be prepared for anything. It’s not a bad quality to have in his line of work, presumably—not a bad one to have joining in on Bucky’s either. 

Bucky waits until the drainage ditch alongside the road has a break where he can pull off on solid shoulder, and puts the truck into park. 

“Come on,” he says, opening his door. Steve’s already following suit. Bucky notices as he climbs out that Steve is dressed slightly less…formally today. He’s got jeans on that look more modern than the khakis had, and his button down is only buttoned half way rather than all the way up to the neck of his white undershirt. 

Bucky grabs his cigarettes from the center console to tuck into his pocket. He really does usually only smoke on the job—but as these are unusual circumstances he’s going to allow himself a pass. He could use a little bit of calming ritual right now. 

The day has grown sticky outside of the air-conditioned truck cab, and Bucky peels his windbreaker off first thing, tossing it back in his open door. 

Steve is standing with his back to the road, looking out across the waving grass stretching away from the highway. Another week or two into spring it’ll be entirely yellow, but for now there’s still a soft edge of rain-fed green to it. Steve’s got both thumbs tucked at his belt, and his back is ramrod straight, though his shoulders are relaxed. Bucky wonders idly if he ever slouches, or if good posture is his default. 

Bucky’s boots crunch in the gravel of the shoulder, and he stops beside the tailgate, hand hovering at the latch. 

“It’s so…big,” Steve says after a moment. The wind is the only sound aside from the two of them, whispering over the grasses. 

Bucky hesitates, then steps over to stand beside Steve looking out at the landscape too, pulling the cigarettes and his lighter out of his back pocket. “Yeah,” he says. 

“There’s so much sky,” Steve adds, “without any trees or buildings or anything I mean.” 

Bucky just hums in response and closes his eyes, taking a first drag on the cigarette and letting the breeze ruffle his hair against his neck. The heat hitting his lungs is just as satisfying and soothing as it always is, and he blows a long stream of smoke out on a sigh. 

“Last time I came through here it was nighttime, so I couldn’t really see anything.” 

“You’ve been before?” Bucky asks, opening his eyes to look at Steve curiously. He’s not sure when Steve would’ve fit a trip in. 

Steve nods, eyes still distant on the horizon. “Came through on a USO tour. Didn’t do much sightseeing. But I wanted to.” He looks over at Bucky and gives a sad, sideways smile. “That’s why I came back. I wonder if…if it even looks any different than it did then.” 

Bucky tips his head, considering. That would’ve been…sometime in the early 40’s he guesses—a fact which he tries to contemplate as clinically as possible. “Probably not much. Guess it might’ve been a bit bleaker—the Dust Bowl and all that. I don’t remember when the grasses really came back in around here. Other than that…” he trails off, looking at the expanse of empty land around them. Then he cuts his eyes at Steve, curiosity getting the better of him. “That a good thing?” 

Steve huffs and looks down at his shoes, eyebrows drawn together over an ironic kind of smile. “That sure is the big question, isn’t it?” 

Bucky chews on his bottom lip, trying to tell if Steve would rather not continue this conversation. But he doesn’t look irritated so much as thoughtful, so Bucky takes another puff and asks, “What’s surprised you the most? Waking up in the future?” 

Steve snorts, and to Bucky’s surprise answers swiftly and with not a little sarcasm. “Probably how much everyone expects me to be surprised by cell phones when in 1943 I watched a guy rip his own face off and then fly away in a rocket powered by science-magic.” 

Bucky stares at him for a moment, and then barks a laugh. “Oh. So not the tech then.” 

Steve laughs too, a little sharply, and then sighs. “No—or not technology itself I guess. I mean I don’t know—some of the stuff I saw with—” Bucky notes his brief hesitation, “—with Shield and the Avengers and all that was a lot to take in. But the stuff that everybody’s got isn’t so crazy—I think it’s how much all that technology has changed the pace of things.” He looks over at Bucky with a frown, thinking. “Everyone knows everything that’s happening immediately, all the time. Not just the news—though that too—but with each other, carrying everyone you know around in your pocket is—” he makes an aborted gesture toward the truck, then stops himself and shakes his head. “Yeah that’s different. And exhausting. I can’t believe people don’t miss being able to just go to bed and think ‘gee I wonder what happened in the world today, guess I’ll pick up the paper tomorrow.’ Or do you?”

Bucky laughs again, and drops the butt of his cigarette, grinding out the last glowing bit with his heel. “Every goddamn day.” 

“Well—can’t go back I guess,” Steve says, smile fading off at the end of the statement. 

“No,” Bucky agrees. “But you can drive out into the middle of nowhere where the reception isn’t so good.” 

“That’s the idea.” Steve’s eyes crinkle just a fraction at the corners, and he turns his back on the expanse of grassland. “So you gonna show me how _your_ fancy futuristic tech works or what?” 

“Actually I’m probably going to let you in on all of our dirty secret which is that none of us have the faintest idea _how_ any of our gizmos work, we just know what to do with ’em,” Bucky says with a grin, trailing Steve back to the truck. “But same result I guess.” 

“What do you mean?” Steve asks. His gaze is keen, flitting over the equipment as Bucky slides the bag of lightning rods to the front. 

“I mean,” Bucky says, unzipping the duffel and pulling out the pilot rod, “I can tell you how I make it do what it’s supposed to, but I can’t for the life of me tell you exactly how it does it.” 

“I see,” Steve says, reaching out as Bucky offers him the rod, and he weighs it in his hands. “So do you—do you know what all the data is that you’re collecting?” 

“More or less,” Bucky says, evading the question but trying to keep his tone light enough not to _sound_ evasive. He hadn’t exactly intended to get into all _that_ with Steve. Just show him enough of the mechanics so that he doesn’t accidentally get hurt shadowing Bucky into the next storm. “Here,” he says, pointing to the thick cord of cables running from the top of the first rod to the next. “Point of these is to set them deep enough so they don’t tip over. It’s usually muddy—at least this time of year. Later in the summer more of the electrical storms don’t come with any rain. Cables connect each one to the next, so the pilot rod goes furthest out—about twenty-five feet from the truck, the rest you pretty much know how far they’re meant to be from the length of the cable, see?” 

Steve runs his hand along the rope of cables and nods. 

“Key is to set them fast, because moment one is down it’s already doing its job and it could get hit any time, especially if I don’t get us right in the eye close enough. Once they’re down though, all I have to do is make sure the rest of this—” he waves his hand at the bank of sensors and receptacles, currently dark and blank, “is powered up and collecting.” 

“And the—handheld thing?” Steve asks, casting his eyes over the stuff in the back of the truck again. 

“Just lets me monitor how strong the strikes are, make sure everything is recording levels and stuff.” 

“So you’re looking at energy levels then? Of the strikes?” 

Bucky hesitates. He has a sneaking suspicion he’s walking up to the edge of his NDA here, but he’s also skirting the line of what he knows for sure about this whole business. He’s put together more of it than Richardson gives him credit for, but he doesn’t _know_ know. And some of the evidence he has he’s not ready to share with a strangers. Bucky finds himself unconsciously clutching at his left forearm with his right hand, and drops it hastily. The fastest way to having to explain things he isn’t ready to explain is to be weird about it—because it’s obvious Steve is much more observant than is convenient. 

“That’s part of it. This thing records all kinds of data.” 

“For Blackstone.” Steve says, and it’s not a question. Bucky looks at him, startled, and finds Steve very purposefully not making eye contact, studying the wire frame of sensors at the top of the lightning rod. Bucky swallows. 

“Yeah. For Blackstone.” 

“How long have you been working for them?” Steve asks. He’s still not looking at Bucky, but Bucky can see the alert interest on him, and it makes his hackles rise a little, defensive. 

“Little over two years ago.” 

“But you don’t know what they’re doing with it.” Again, it’s not a question, and Bucky can feel his temper rising. Not that Steve is wrong, but who is he to say it at all? Bucky doesn’t even know how Steve figured out it was Blackstone in the first place, and Steve’s line of questioning grates on him. 

“I’m part of their field research, Steve. What? You think I should be in the labs too? Maybe part of the PR team? Product development? I’m a storm chaser. They hired me to chase storms.” 

Steve does look up now, unwavering blue eyes holding Bucky’s. 

“Do you—did you know Blackstone manufactures weapons?” 

“_Among_ other things,” Bucky shoots back. “They’re interested in other sectors _Steve_, renewable energy being one of—” 

“And the fact that Justin Hammer is the guy at the top of this, that doesn’t concern you?” 

“Why should it?” Bucky asks, tartly. He knows what Steve’s getting at, close to an accusation, but he wants him to say what he means. 

“Because he—” Steve frowns, expression faltering for the first time, and Bucky draws himself up, squaring his shoulders. _That’s right_, he thinks. Steve doesn’t have any right to sound so goddamned sure about his judgements here—Bucky isn’t _sure_ and he’s been working on it a lot longer. Steve shakes his head. “What he tried to do, to Stark, he’s not—”

“Tony Stark?” Bucky cuts in, acidly. “Your good friend, you mean—the one who used to be the world’s leading weapons manufacturer and now makes an absolute mint trading in alternative energy? That one?” 

“Yeah,” Steve says, and he folds his arm across his chest. 

“Look I don’t know your buddy Tony like you do, but don’t you think it’s _just_ possible that anyone else could see that he’s made a pretty damn lucrative industry shift—” Steve opens his mouth, looking like he wants to argue, and Bucky raises his voice slightly to finish the thought, “and that _especially_ someone who’s made a career of competing with Stark might want a piece of that industry too?” 

“Maybe,” Steve says, grinding out the word like it pains him. 

Bucky takes a deep breath, trying not to look like he’s upset or like Steve’s got him on the ropes here (even if he might, a bit). “So what’s your problem with research like that? Maybe he hopes to make money off of it—of _course_ he does—but that doesn’t make it a bad thing in the long run to have.” 

Steve stares back at him for a long moment, both of their body’s tense. But Steve looks away first, shoulders sagging. 

“Okay. Sorry.”

Bucky watches him as a few more seconds tick by, trying to determine if there’s sincerity in the apology. He’s not sure, but it at least doesn’t seem _in_sincere. “Thank you.” 

Steve’s jaw is working, and the crease deepens between his eyebrows again as he looks up from under them. “I don’t mean to be a jerk, Buck.” 

The defensive rigidity of Bucky’s frame relents another fraction. “Okay.” 

“I’d still like to come with you.”

“Okay…” he hadn’t actually considered that Steve might _not_, but of course it makes sense given the situation. If he doesn’t trust Blackstone. 

Or more to the point, if he doesn’t trust _Bucky_. 

“I think that would be—good.” Steve adds. “What you said, if you’re sure.” 

“Sure enough.” 

Steve meets his eyes, and Bucky does his best not to waver—either by dropping his eyes or by angling his left side away from Steve’s line of sight like his instincts are suggesting even though there’s nothing to see at the moment. Because he _is_ sure enough, that’s always been the deal he had with himself. He’s not _sure_ with a period on it about exactly what this is all for, but he’s sure _enough_. Or had been. 

Now, staring down Steve Rogers in defense of it, there is an unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach that the “enough” goalpost may just have been moved way further down the field against his will. 

Steve nods, and then shifts away, gently replacing the lightning rod into the duffle where it belongs. 

Bucky takes another settling breath, and shuts the tailgate. 

*

Bucky isn’t happy, Steve can tell. They climb back into the cab and trundle along up to speed on the highway, and the silence is heavy. Much heavier than the relatively friendly one they’d been sharing before they stopped. 

Steve can’t decide if he regrets it or not. He doesn’t love the idea of Bucky being chilly with him. But it wasn’t like he could just not ask. And Bucky’s answers had been…instructive. 

Not instructive as to what he’s actually doing—the counterargument that it might all be in service of energy and not weaponry was convincing but also clearly hypothetical—but to the fact that Bucky also doesn’t actually know what the big scheme is here. And that’s a small dose of comfort anyway, Steve feels like he can put the “he might be a nefarious agent for a shadow organization” worry to bed. 

But with that established, Steve resolves to let the rest drop for the moment. Bucky doesn’t have the information he’d need to prove anything, if he wanted to get Natasha or any of the others involved. (Actually, it would have to be Natasha—and by extension Fury, if they turned up anything significant—Bucky was right at least about his pointed comments about Tony’s bias here, however much Tony had changed Steve’s estimation of him by the end of the fight in New York). So at this point, it seems like the best way to soothe his suspicions is to do exactly what he was already planning—tag along, see Bucky work, and see what he can glean from that without getting Bucky’s hackles up any further (and himself dropped unceremoniously off in the next available town).

He wishes he could _actually_ drop it and just believe that there’s nothing worth worrying about—but he’d still bet a good portion of his seventy years of army backpay against Blackstone’s intentions. Maybe that’s down to the fact that the most significant events of his recent past—and his less recent past—have taught him that people who stumble on sources of power are _going_ to try to figure out how to make weapons out of that power. Good guys, bad guys, whoever. Seems like humanity can’t help itself. And Blackstone doesn’t have an encouraging track-record even based on what little he does know. 

Steve glances sideways at Bucky, and notes that his knuckles are tense and white against the steering wheel. It’s going to be a long…however many days if things stay like this. 

He casts around for something to say to reset the mood. Something friendly and non-inflammatory. But so far what he knows about Bucky is storms and what he’d shared in the darkness of the motel last night. And both of those are combustible topics in their own way. 

Steve decides the former line of questioning is still safer. If Bucky pulls over and kicks him out, or yells at him, or otherwise reacts poorly along those lines at least Steve will know what to do with that. 

“So the storm,” Steve says, “that we’re headed for. Think it will be a lot like yesterday or…?”

“The…? Oh,” Bucky’s face clears as he seems to recognize the question, and Steve takes a small breath of relief. “More or less I think. You never really know but—” he tips the screen of his phone up from beside him on the seat of the truck, “looks like similar pressure and precipitation and stuff.” 

“So how do you want to run it, exactly? I can do how I did before and take up the heavy lifting, or you tell me if there’s a better strategy. I’ll follow your lead.” 

Bucky laughs, and quirks his eyebrow at Steve with a sort of incredulous look. Steve raises his eyebrows back in question. 

Bucky shakes his head and smiles crookedly at the road. “Sorry, just don’t think I ever would’ve expected Steve Rogers to be asking me to tell him anything about strategy.” 

“Yeah, well,” Steve says, trying out a tentative smile back, “if we were headed into a tank battalion or an army of invading aliens I’d probably expect you to follow mine.” 

Bucky snorts. “Fair enough. But yeah I thought we uh, worked pretty well together like that. It’s a solid plan, rinse and repeat.” 

They subside into quiet for a little while after that, the thrum of the engine and the tires chewing up the road a soothing white noise. After a bit, Bucky reaches for the radio again, turning the dial back up and washing the cab in the bright sound of guitar and drums. 

Music has been one of those odd things about the future for Steve. It’s not that he isn’t interested in hearing what’s been made while he was asleep, and it’s not even that he hates a lot of it. It’s just another reminder of how _much_ of everything everyone has in the modern world. He’d started out trying to find out what “modern” music sounds like and found out that the answer is…everything. Anything. Lots of things. There isn’t really an answer—or there’s a hundred depending on if you ask a hundred different people. 

Like this radio station Bucky’s been listening to. In the two minutes they’ve been listening it had switched over from some kind of upbeat number sung by maybe two or three people with a structure that’s at least familiar to him—it had a verse and a chorus, and it was probably about love—to something played at least half on a some sort of eerie instrument he couldn’t even name that has yet to have any discernible lyrics. He doesn’t understand how they’re meant to connect to one another categorically at all. 

He recognizes the next one that plays, it’s from Tony’s frequent rotation. The man singing has a high voice, and it’s more yelling than melody. Steve sort of resents that he finds he likes hearing it just based on familiarity alone, but he does. It’s nice to hear something he recognizes even if he can’t say it would be his taste otherwise. 

The next song starts and it’s a hard sound, heavy and brash, like a challenge. But it’s a woman singing, which is a change of pace. Steve tips his head listening. 

“Steve,” Bucky says, interrupting his analysis. 

“Uh huh?” 

“Have you liked a single song that’s played today?” 

“Oh, um no. I mean sure.” Steve feels himself reddening. “I mean, I haven’t hated some of them?” 

Bucky laughs, tipping his head back agains the headrest, and Steve’s eyes are drawn to the dip of his Adam’s apple momentarily. 

“That’s a rousing endorsement, you should phone that in to ninety-one-three and they can play it between commercials—Captain America says he ‘doesn’t hate’ some of the All Golden Oldies.” 

Steve smiles wryly. “I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut about stuff like that.” 

“Have you?” Bucky asks. 

Steve nods. “People recommend a lot of stuff to me. I write it all down and it makes them feel good for helping me get educated. But it’s usually better if I keep my reviews to myself.” 

Bucky raises an eyebrow and shoots him a look. “Why’s that? You too mean?” 

Steve sighs. “Look, how old were you when this lady made this song?” 

“I Love Rock ’n Roll? I don’t think I was born yet.” 

“And how many times in your life have you heard it?” 

Bucky laughs again. “I couldn’t even guess.” 

“You like it though?” 

Bucky shrugs. “Sure, it’s a classic.” 

“That’s the problem,” Steve says, and lets his head fall back against his own headrest. “A lot of people have a lot of things they love because they can’t imagine not. It’s hard for people to get what it’s like without nostalgia.” Steve’s mouth twists down at the corners over the word. “Nostalgia’s probably the biggest foe I’ve had to face since I woke up. I’ll take an alien army any day.” 

“Nostalgia about you?” 

“Sure. Nostalgia about me, nostalgia about a whole century of shit I don’t have any reference or love for. Nostalgia about stuff I _do_ remember but a lot less fondly. People coming up to me waxing poetic about how I must miss how ‘men were men and women were ladies’ and that kinda thing. Which isn’t true, by the way,” he says, gathering speed as he warms to a topic he’s kept his thoughts largely private about. “And you know what, if I watched every movie people tell me I am going to love or have to know to get by today I’d have enough viewing material to spend the next five years just doing that. It actually tells me a lot less about how I’m supposed to be living now than people think.” 

Steve bites off the end of the sentence before the rant can get more traction. He doesn’t mean to sound bitter. People mean well. 

Bucky is looking over at him curiously from the corner of his eye. “You know what, that actually makes a lot of sense.” 

Steve huffs a dry laugh. “Does it?” 

“Sure,” Bucky says. “All of us growing up, we got shaped by this—this music, those movies, whatever. Makes sense people want to shape you with what they know. And people want to think they know you.” 

“Yeah.” 

“You got anyone who actually knows you, Rogers?” 

The tone of the question is purposefully light, and Steve looks at Bucky, who is looking determinedly at the road. 

“Maybe. I could,” he says. He’s not really sure. 

“You want to?” 

He thinks about it. He thinks about his handful of phone calls with Peggy Carter who’s still around, but with a memory full of holes that means sometimes she does know him and sometimes she doesn’t. Or does but gets too upset by it for her nurses to put him through some days. And about Natasha, who has managed to be the only person who can tease him about the realities of his strange existence without it bugging him. And Bruce, who had been so surprisedly pleased at Steve’s acceptance of him that he’d returned the favor quietly and unquestioningly. And last he looks at Bucky, letting the question hang in the air not, seemingly, as a request—but maybe an offer. 

“Yeah. I do.” 

“Okay,” Bucky says, simply. “How about you start by telling me if you just want me to turn this shit off?” He gestures at the radio and gives Steve a small smile. 

Steve ducks his head. “I don’t mind it. Like I said, don’t hate it.” He darts a smile at Bucky. “And I wouldn’t want you to get bored and run us off the road if you fell asleep at the wheel.” 

Bucky smiles wider. “Okay. Then how about instead you tell me if you hear anything you actually like? Or actually hate,” he adds with a laugh. 

Steve nods, letting the tight knot of pent up irritation from his flare of complaining unfurl into something more relaxed. 

“That’s a deal.” 

They keep driving. Steve likes a song that Bucky tells him is Fleetwood Mac, is confused by one that seems to include several minutes of opera singing, and finds himself unsettled again by the eerie wailing instrument wielded by a man named Pink Floyd. Bucky doesn’t seem to be bothered the first time Steve scrunches his nose and admits that he doesn’t like something, he just laughs. They creep closer and closer to the edge of the rain, the flat horizon providing a constant view of the progress almost to the point of feeling like they might be on a giant treadmill. 

In fact, the dark mass of the storm seems so distant for so long that it’s a little bit of a surprise when Steve looks up and suddenly finds that it isn’t a far off object anymore but something beginning to loom around them. He can still see bright, clear sunshine in the rearview mirror, but the light in the cab is starting to dim. But there are bright flashes in the darkness too, and they can hear the low rumble of thunder accompanying each one now. 

Beside Steve, Bucky is also shaking off his stillness—like the storm ahead of them, he’s starting to come more alive every moment they get closer. He shifts restlessly in his seat, checking his phone every couple of minutes and looking over at Steve with much more frequency than he had before. His excitement is contagious, and Steve feels himself catching on to his energy, leaning forward with his eyes glued on the storm clouds as if his careful attention will draw them into it faster. 

Soon he can distinguish the misty grey veil between the clouds and the earth where it’s raining ahead. Bucky reaches for the radio, and hits the power button to turn the music off. 

“Sorry,” he says to Steve, throwing him an apologetic look, “I gotta concentrate for a little bit here.” 

“Fine by me,” Steve says. Another handful of lightning forks flash across the expanse of the windshield, and there is anything but silence surrounding them now as the thunder that follows tells him that they’re drawing much closer to the action. 

Steve shifts in his seat, wrapping his hand around the door handle to feel like he’s prepared. 

Just like yesterday, they hit the rain almost like passing through a wall—one minute everything around them is dry, and the next they’re enveloped by the hissing pounding of it on the roof of the truck, obscuring everything but the blinding flashes of lightning ahead. The shape of those is still clear as day as they cut through the gray. 

Just like yesterday, too, it’s a shock when they again break through the rain into the yellowed eye of the storm. It’s still drizzling, but it’s not the impenetrable sheet it was a few minutes back. There’s almost no space between the rolling booms of thunder now as the lightning hits all around them, so Steve doesn’t try to say anything to Bucky, just looks over at him and nods his head to tell him he’s ready for it. 

Bucky grins back at him, his eyes bright and wild, and Steve feels his own face breaking into an answering grin. Then Bucky nods back, and flicks his eyes to the road—all the warning Steve needs before he yanks the wheel to take them off the road and bumping over the uneven grass beside them. 

It feels good, this time, knowing exactly what to do when Bucky throws the truck into park and himself out of the driver’s side door. Yesterday, Steve had followed on instinct, unable to sit still in the cab but unsure of what if anything he could do to help. But today he moves on both instinct and knowledge, making a beeline for the duffle which he scoops up as soon as Bucky drops the tailgate. It feels good, too, how Bucky doesn’t wait to see if he’s doing it right before he turns and sets off from the truck—he knows Steve is already on his heels, their bodies moving in tandem. 

Like he’d said, Bucky stops about twenty-five feet out, and Steve’s already unloading the pilot rod, handing it to Bucky and retracing their steps, a few feet back to set the next. By the time it’s set Bucky has already grabbed the third and is ramming it in place, so Steve moves past him down to place the third, and then the next and the next until they’ve leapfrogged all the way back to the truck. Steve drops the empty, muddy duffel into the open space in the bed of it while Bucky flicks a handful of switches on the machines. 

He turns to Steve with the monitoring device in one hand and another grin on his face. He looks beatific, maybe even euphoric. Like a painting of a saint in holy raptures, haloed by the eerie flicker of lightning all around him. Down the line, a snaking sliver of light strikes one of the posts, and all the lights on the machinery flare and blink. 

Steve stands still for a moment looking back at Bucky, uncertain, his hands open at his sides and body still coiled for action. But Bucky shakes his head, laughing, and then the rest of his body, settling himself. 

“Is that—are we good?” Steve calls over the deafening thunder. 

“Yeah!” Bucky shouts with another laugh, “That’s it—never gotten them all down that fast before!” 

Steve tries to release the tension his own body body the same way Bucky had, though the pumping adrenaline has him ready to leap into more movement. _It was so quick_, he thinks. Next time he’ll have to remember to enjoy it more. 

Bucky hops up onto the tailgate of the truck, and shakes out a cigarette with shaking fingers. His eyes flick up to Steve over the small flame of his lighter, and he waves him over. 

“Come sit,” he half-yells over the din. “Watch the good part with me.” 

Steve obeys, forcing his rigid legs to step forward, and hoists himself up beside Bucky. 

It’s only his second time, so he can’t really be certain—but he thinks they must have hit the timing even better than they had yesterday. The forking tongues of lightning all along their line of rods is almost ceaseless for several minutes, the lights on the censors behind them never seeming to go dark at all. 

Bucky offers him a cigarette, and Steve accepts it without thinking. It takes a couple of tries with the lighter, even cupped protectively behind one hand, before it’s lit. But his ears can still make out the satisfying little crackle of it catching before the smoke hits his mouth. 

He looks over at Bucky, whose lips are sealed around the end of his smoke taking a long inhale, but his eyes are fixed on the line, squinting against the searing brightness. Steve feels like his own vision is a little spotted with the ghost of all the strikes, but he can’t quite look away either. 

Eventually—sooner than Steve would like, really—the constant assault on his eyes and ears begins to abate, sweeping past them across the open grassland. He can hear his heart pounding in his ears now between the claps of thunder. 

He looks over, and finds Bucky with his eyes closed and head tipped back, breathing deeply. Bucky’s hair is plastered to his face around his temples, a mixture of rain and sweat. Steve can see his heart racing too, a visible tempo beating just under the sharp corner where his jaw meets his ear. 

He experiences a sudden, wild impulse to reach out and touch the spot, to feel Bucky’s pulse under his fingertips. He tries to shake the thought away as quickly as it occurs, but not before he can register the even more unacceptable urge to place his lips there instead, where his ear would be in just the right spot to hear Bucky’s quick and maybe evening quickening breath while he did. 

Steve looks away, fast, and reaches blindly for a second cigarette—something to do with his hands and mouth other than that. 

It’s just adrenaline, he tells himself forcefully. Just his body lit up by excitement and crossing the wires about what he should do with it. 

It doesn’t bleed away with the receding storm this time either, not as quickly as it had yesterday. And Bucky moves slower today than before to pack up the supplies. The thunder is only a vague, muddled sound reaching them from the far horizon before he sighs and stubs out his last cigarette. He stretches, and Steve can’t help but note that the lines of him are still taut with undispelled tension even as he says reluctantly, 

“Well, guess that’s that—for today.” 

Steve swallows, and follows suit in standing up. “Was it—did it go faster today? Or is that just me?” 

Bucky laughs. “I’m not sure. Guess it was about normal. Did seem awful quick though, huh? Usually I’m tired out by now.” 

Steve chuckles wryly, “Yeah, about the same for me.” 

He moves toward the first lightning rod, yanking it from its seat in the mud and Bucky follows him, holding open the duffle bag. They work quickly and efficiently, until everything is stowed. 

They both stand at the end of the truck for a moment, looking out at the muddy, empty wreckage around them. All that’s been left as a legacy of the rush that they’d just gone through is a sluggish trickle of rain on the hacked up turf. That and, for Steve at least, a sense of incomplete expectation. He chews on the inside of his cheek and looks over at Bucky, whose hand is still on the latch. Bucky huffs a frustrated breath, and shrugs his shoulders. 

“Done and dusted I guess.” 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. 

“You hungry?” 

“Uh—” Steve examines his inner workings to see if he’s got an answer. It’s inconclusive. 

Bucky’s mouth twists up to one side. “Yeah, me neither. Might as well start driving though—maybe by the time there’s an option we will be. Tired, too.” 

Steve nods, and makes for the front seat as Bucky does the same. 

Bucky shakes his hair out of his eyes as he settles in behind the wheel, sending a little splatter of water droplets from the ends. He reaches to put the truck in gear, but his hand pauses there for a moment, still. Then he turns to face Steve, eyebrows drawn together over a sincere kind of expression.

“Thanks for wanting to come today, Steve, even if—” he shakes his head again, stopping himself. “Working with someone was—I think we work really well together. It was nice.” 

Steve’s eyes fix on Bucky’s hand gripping the gearshift. “Thank you for letting me,” he says, slowly. He doesn’t want the overeagerness still thrumming through his veins to make him stumble into saying more than he ought to, so he takes a small breath to make sure he doesn’t ramble on before he looks back up at Bucky, meeting his eyes. “I think we did too. And I liked doing it. I’ve been sort of—” he stops himself. He’s gotten accustomed to prioritizing his dignity over honesty, it’s a habit. But it’s a tiring one, and the image of his early days in his apartment, leafing through the files Shield had provided him over everyone he’d known flashes in front of him. “Well. Sort of lonely I guess. Or on my own anyway. So I agree, this was nice.” 

Bucky peers back at him for a long moment, eyes wide—then ducks his head away, looking pleased, and pushes the truck into drive. 

“Good” he says. “That’s good.” 

Steve pulls his eyes away from the curve of Bucky’s smiling mouth and onto the road, and presses his own lips shut tight against a reply. 

He can’t account for the way his heart is still skittering, long after the storm front has returned to nothing but a dark line of shadow in the rearview mirror. 

*

art by velvetjinx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _When that storm comes_   
_Don't run for cover_   
_Don't run from the comin' storm_   
_No there ain't no use in running_
> 
> Storm Comin', The Wailing Jennys


	3. Scorched Earth, Your Skin

Bucky refreshes his email by habit, knowing there’s not going to be anything new in the last five minutes since he checked it. There isn’t. He switches tabs on his laptop back over to the storm tracker. The new front massing to the north in the top left corner of Oklahoma hasn’t moved or grown in the few minutes since he looked at it either. It won’t be a full blown event until late tonight, which means they have all day to get there, which means today is going to be boring. 

He makes a dissatisfied noise and slumps back against the two thin motel pillows stuffed between him and the headboard. 

Usually he’s grateful for these lulls in between jobs—grateful to sleep in a little, wash the copious amounts of mud out of his clothes, hit the road when he feels like it and eat more than one full meal if he wants. 

But today he just feels irritated at the slow build of the atmospheric conditions taking their sweet time up there. Yesterday’s job had left him itchy and unresolved for whatever reason. It’s not like it sometimes is—when a stormfront doesn’t really materialize all the way, or he hits off center and doesn’t quite get the levels he was hoping to collect from it. It had been a pretty much textbook run for an electrical storm—the capacity in the tubes up to nearly 80%. 

Bucky glances over at Steve’s carefully made bed (something Bucky noted he’s done now in both of their shared motel rooms despite the fact that it’s obviously going to be stripped and washed anyway as soon as they leave) with his tidy pack and things sitting on top. Steve’s down the hall, switching over their laundry, and presumably seeking out coffee—his offer, not Bucky’s request. 

He has to admit to himself that Steve has more to do with his current unsettled state than he’d like to give him credit for. It had been so _fun_ and so _good_ tackling the storm yesterday with him—he doesn’t want to wait a whole day to do it again. He wants to show Steve everything about how awesome this can be. He’s hoping hard for some tornado activity just for Steve’s sake. That’s the good shit. 

And he’s worried, too, about a full day without distractions, and whether that might lead to their unfortunate undoing by conversation. And it wouldn’t just be Steve’s fault either for bringing up things Bucky doesn’t want to discuss, because while he really _doesn’t_ want to discuss Blackstone any further he also desperately does. He feels a very unacceptable urge to bring it up again just to defend himself. 

Still, yesterday the best defense had been to show and not tell—through their entire effort in the eye of the storm he’d felt exultant, watching Steve light up with excitement. He’d wanted to crow “See? You understand now, don’t you? Why I _really_ do this?” He thinks Steve must have, at least a little, standing in the middle of the cacophony with him. 

Bucky shakes his head, and tabs over to a new map. At least he can figure out what route to take today, to set them up right for the next venture. 

There’s a soft snick from the other side of the room of the door opening. Steve backs in and nudges it closed again with one knee, a coffee mug in one hand and one of their two bags of laundry in the other. 

“Towels are done, clothes’ll be ready soon,” he says, tossing the bag of towels—rags, really—that Bucky uses for cleaning and drying equipment at the foot of his bed. 

He crosses the room to Bucky, offering the coffee mug. “No cream but a ton of sugar, was that right?”

Bucky’s cheeks go a little pink, but he nods. That _is_ right, and it makes him feel some sort of way that Steve had paid attention. 

He tries to take the cup, but neglects to remember that it’s going to be hot, and his fingers jerk away from the contact, jarring the mug so that it spills a bit over the edge. 

“Ugh—”

“—sorry!” 

Steve scoots his fingers down the handle and turns his hand to offer it to Bucky that way, which he takes—utterly unable to avert the inevitable result of brushing his fingers over Steve’s as he replaces his own grip before Steve lets go. It shouldn’t be a Thing, and yet, unfortunately, here he is, pretty positive he’s flushed again. 

Bucky looks down at the mug in his right hand to avoid looking Steve in the eye, absently wiping his dripping left down the front of his sleep shirt. 

But strangely when he does look up Steve is—also looking down. In fact his eyes are glued to Bucky’s hand running down his chest. Bucky’s pulse ticks up a little at the realization. Is he—? No, definitely not—right? 

Bucky can’t help himself—he lets his hand wander a bit lower than cleanliness necessitates, over his stomach toward the top of his sweatpants. Steve’s eyes follow it keenly, before he coughs and pointedly looks away. 

Well, shit. 

Bucky looks back with unseeing eyes to the screen of his computer, and takes a steadying gulp of bad motel coffee, not sure what to think about that. His sense are all on hyper-alert to Steve’s movements as he returns to his side of the room and sits on the end of his bed to begin folding clean towels from the laundry bag. He doesn’t look at Bucky again—but the not looking is so forceful that it does nothing to contradict whatever just happened. 

If Steve were _looking_ at him Bucky would know what the strange charged atmosphere in the room means. He knows the steps to that unspoken dance, when someone’s gaze comes as an offer. And he’d be lying through his teeth at this point if he didn’t admit to himself that he would respond quickly and positively to a proposition, however unwise it would be or how resolved he’s been not to think about Steve that way. He’s trying to be a friend. But god_damn_ he’s only human. 

But Steve _isn’t_ looking at him, even if he seems like he wants to be. So there’s nothing on offer. Especially not Bucky throwing this mug of terrible coffee at the wall and climbing into Steve’s lap to mess up his golden hair and perfect military-tucked bedspread. That’s definitely off the table—but on the list of things Bucky now has to try very hard not to introduce into conversation today during the long empty stretches of highway ahead of them. 

They need a good, nasty storm to chase. They’re both wound up and unfulfilled from yesterday’s attempts—the right run at some weather would burn all this off. 

Bucky shuts his laptop. Hopefully they’ll figure out enough to talk about that Bucky can avoid pissing Steve off so much that he ditches Bucky in the next town. 

And if he refuses to think about why he’d even care so much about that in the first place, maybe that will sort itself out too. 

He feels a bit better after a coffee (even if it was a coffee delivered to him by Steve…in bed…which doesn’t help certain aspects of the situation even if it ameliorates others). 

They skip the underwhelming continental breakfast at the motel, heading instead to the diner at the other end of town—Bucky figures they might as well, since they have time to kill. Bucky contents himself with another cup of coffee and a dish of eggs that weren’t powdered at any point, and watches Steve inhale an omelet, two sides of bacon, a stack of pancakes, and a plate of fruit that Bucky is pretty sure must be taking fruit off the menu for anyone else coming in to eat the rest of this week. He watches it all mildly impressed, but also with a twinge of guilt, thinking of Steve surreptitiously eating muffins and granola bars stolen from the motel yesterday. He’ll have to remember this for the future—unlike him, Steve clearly needs to eat in the mornings. And also unlike him, Steve clearly wasn’t going to say anything about it. 

Bucky wonders, regarding him over the rim of his coffee mug, if the habit of staying silent about physical discomfort is more Captain America or more Steve Rogers. He knows, because he really did read that biography, that Steve wasn’t a stranger to it before the serum. But it also seems such a sad thing, it strikes him as maybe being more a product of externally enforced stoicism and also maybe not having anyone he can trust to tell. He’s used to keeping his game face on, maybe. 

Well, Bucky’s resolved not to be complicit in that again. A _friend_ would notice, for sure.

The train of thought is interrupted by a small shuffling motion beside their table. Bucky looks over to Steve’s elbow, and finds a very small boy with very large eyes looking at them (well, at Steve) with a rapturous expression. 

Steve follows Bucky’s eye line to the little boy, his expression at once going soft as he sets down his fork. 

“Hi,” Steve says, in a low voice. 

The boy looks half terrified and half thrilled. He swallows hard. “Are you—” his voice comes out as little more than a squeak. Bucky isn’t super great with children ages anymore (lack of practice) but he thinks the kid can’t be more than eight or so. “Are you Captain America?” 

Steve lets out a little sigh, but smiles at the kid. “Yeah I am, bud. You’ve got good eyes. You a spy or something?” 

The boy goes beet red and smiles at the praise, but shakes his head very seriously. “M’not a spy. I’m having breakfast with my dad.” He turns and points to a burly man in a ball cap, who looks embarrassed, but gives them a gruff wave when they look his way. “On Saturday I get to stay at his house and we get to eat pancakes.” 

“I love pancakes,” Steve says. “Thanks for coming to say hi to me.” 

The boy looks pained. When he opens his mouth again the words all tumble over each other without any spaces, “For Christmas last year I got a shield just like yours and sometimes I practice with it but my mom won’t let me bring it with me because she doesn’t want it to get lost but I wish I could show you it.” At the end of the very long sentence he sucks in a heaving breath. 

Steve ducks his head, eyes crinkling. “What’s your name?” 

“Jake.” 

“Jake I’d love to see your shield, but since it’s safe at home would you want me to sign something for you?” 

“Yeah,” Jake gasps, eyes going impossibly wider. Then he looks down at his hands almost horrified, “I don’t got any paper.” He looks devastated. 

“Here honey,” a new voice enters the conversation. It’s their waitress, an older lady with a knowing smile on her face. She holds out her order pad and pencil to Steve, who bends over it to scrawl a note across it. Bucky glances around the diner and sees that she wasn’t the only one paying attention to the interaction. You’ve gotta love country people, he thinks. Absolutely none of them had joined Jake in approaching Steve—nobody wants to make a scene, even with a celebrity in their midst. 

“Here you go, Jake,” Steve says, ripping off the page and handing it to the little boy, who clasps it like a treasure. “You have a fun day with your dad okay?” 

“Thank you!” Jake gives Steve one last, long look before scampering away back to his table. 

Steve chuckles and shakes his head, returning to his pancakes. 

“That was cute,” Bucky says, low enough for it not to carry over to Jake, his dad, or any of the other people carefully _not_ listening to them right now. “You were good with him.” 

Steve shrugs, and looks embarrassed. “Kids are easy. Honestly before—I’ve been used to kids coming up to me and stuff. It’s now that adults do it I got no idea what to do with myself.” 

“I feel that,” Bucky says. “Actually I um—when I was in school still, for a little bit I—kind of wanted to be a teacher. Like for little kids. I thought it would be fun.” He isn’t sure why he feels nervous admitting it. 

Steve looks at him measuringly for a moment. “I bet you would’ve been good at it.” 

Bucky dips his head over his coffee mug. He’s not at all sure about that—he hadn’t even talked to that kid—but it’s nice to hear Steve thinks it anyway, even if it’s not true. 

Steve returns to his food, and Bucky remembers what he’d been thinking of before Jake walked up. 

“Hey Steve?” 

Steve looks up from scraping the last bites of pancake through the syrup on his plate. “Hm? Do we need to get going—I’ll finish up—”

Bucky shakes his head with a rueful smile. “No, I was just gonna say—we’re not in a hurry today, so tell me when you want lunch okay? We can stop whenever.” 

“Oh,” Steve says, a mixture of chagrin and gratitude on his face. “I mean, I’ll be fine, if you just wanted to power through the drive.” 

“Nope,” Bucky says, firmly. “We got all day to get there and nowhere to be in a hurry. So tell me when you get hungry.” 

“Um. I will,” Steve says, ducking his head. “Thanks.” 

When the check arrives, Steve grabs for it before it even has a chance to hit the table. 

“Thanks,” Bucky says. “I’ll get lunch.” 

Steve gives him an unimpressed look. “Only if you actually order something.” 

“I ordered something! I had coffee _and_ eggs.” 

Steve looks down pointedly at the stack of emptied dishware on his side of the table. 

Bucky humphs. “I’ll get lunch.” 

Steve declines comment, which he takes as a win. 

Nothing dissipates from the air around Bucky’s skin as they set out on the road. If anything, it seems to take on a life of its own, fueled by the contained space and Bucky’s acknowledgement of it. 

Steve peels off his jacket as the day gets warm and sticky heading toward its peak. He didn’t bother with his funny plaid button down today, and the white t-shirt he’s wearing clings to him in the heat. 

Bucky can’t help being transfixed when he reaches an arm out to turn up the struggling AC—but he could also _almost_ swear that Steve flexes a little too, the broad muscles across his back tensing briefly before he sits back in his seat, a tint of pink at the tips of his ears. 

Bucky checks their ETA on his phone map. Seven hours. Seven hours til he can get into some mud and some wind and some fucking _lightning_ to clear his head. The truck grumbles a little as he pushes the speedometer toward ninety. 

To his pleased surprise though, he doesn’t have to demand for Steve to admit when he needs to eat again. A couple of hours into the drive he clears his throat. 

“If there’s—um—an exit sometime, I could probably eat soon.” He sounds sheepish and a little unhappy about it, but he _does_ say it unprompted. Bucky smiles. 

“Yeah, keep an eye out. I think the next town with a diner or anything is probably about an hour out…” 

“Actually,” Steve hesitates a moment, “do you think we could just drive through somewhere?” Bucky looks over, and Steve’s mouth twists in a rueful smile. “I feel kind of antsy to get where we’re headed, you know?” 

Bucky nods agreement, a little relieved. “No problem. Me too.” 

He’s too antsy himself for leisurely after all. 

“You said we’d probably be hitting this one after dark, right?” Steve asks. 

“Yeah, most likely kind of late. Actually—” he breaks off, feeling a little nervous. “I don’t think we’re going to be near anything if we hit the center where it looks most promising so—I normally just camp out when that happens. I get pretty tired to drive, easier to just drop and get a little shuteye. Is that okay? I’ve got extra stuff—?”

“That’s fine,” Steve says quickly. “Got no problem sleeping rough.” 

The day drags on. Eventually Steve dozes off against his window, allowing Bucky for the first time since yesterday to feel like there’s enough air for him to breathe freely, even if he keeps checking on him. 

Steve snores pretty dorkily for someone with such an elegant nose. He looks soft, drowsing in the slant of sun cutting across him—softer than he should look, when really every line and curve of his face could have been rendered in marble. Except his eyelashes, Bucky notes, it would be impossible to capture those in any other medium. 

It’s peaceful enough, almost, with the steady rhythm of Steve’s breathing and the hum of the truck, to take the edge off of Bucky’s nerves for a little bit. Long enough that it surprises him when he finds himself squinting against the dimming twilight, and has to remember to flick on his headlights. 

It’s also thanks to the encroaching darkness that he isn’t able to track their approach on the storm from across the horizon. He can see it getting closer on the GPS, but whatever dark clouds are building out there remain hidden. 

He doesn’t realize Steve is awake again until he asks softly, “We getting close?” 

“Should be, pretty soon,” Bucky replies, tone more hushed than is necessary. He feels like they’re sneaking up on it, between the cool stillness of the night and the anxious anticipation in his stomach. 

“I think—I can make something out, up there,” Steve says, keeping his voice low too. 

“Can you?” Bucky asks, genuinely surprised. 

Steve nods. “I’ve got…good eyesight.” 

Bucky understands him to mean _enhanced_ eyesight, but doesn’t remark on it. 

“What’s it looking like?” 

Steve hums, and squints out past the limited beams of the headlights into the darkness beyond. “A little weird, actually. Like the clouds are—glowing.” 

Bucky darts his eyes toward it, though he knows he can’t see anything yet. _Ah, it’s going to be one of those nights_. He takes a deep steadying breath. 

“Alright,” he says.

“Is that—bad?” Steve asks, voice sharper now. 

“Not bad,” Bucky says, slowly. “Good for the data. But weird, yes.” 

“Should I do anything different?” 

Bucky considers. “Just stay on your toes. It doesn’t always go how you think, when it gets like this.” 

“Okay.” Steve sits up straighter, planting his feet on the floor, already obeying the command to added alertness. 

Bucky does his best to breathe evenly around the rapid beat of his heart. He’d hoped to show Steve something exciting—and it seems like he’s going to get his wish. But the storms like this are unpredictable, even more than a tornado would’ve been. Going into it distracted is a bad idea. 

In the time he’s been working for Blackstone, he’s only managed to be in the middle of maybe three of these things. Before Blackstone, he’d accidentally stumbled on two. In fact, his photos from those are almost definitely what put him on their radar in the first place. Like he keeps trying and failing to convince Richardson—he’s not an idiot, and he knows this is what really interests them. 

It had been pretty impossible to find any information about exactly what had happened in New Mexico, when Thor had first made his appearance. Any reporting or video from it had been locked down not long after. The recent events in New York had been harder to wipe from the internet—it’s still easy to find footage of what the sky had looked like when aliens had ripped a hole in it. Bucky’s seen enough from both to know that these storms have way more in common with both of those times than they do with the ones that just happen thanks to atmospheric pressures. 

The first time he’d landed himself in one, one of the _really_ strange ones, he’d spent the whole time expecting something to materialize in the middle of it. Now that he’s been in a couple, he has different theories about exactly what they mean. It doesn’t seem quite like the ones that brought visitors from space, it’s more like—echoes of those occurrences. Ripples, maybe. The earth trying to shake off the trauma of those rips in space, to spread it around a little at a time. Richardson has been deeply uninterested in hearing Bucky’s thoughts on the matter, which in some ways just confirms to him that he knows more than they’d like for him to. So he’s stopped fishing or sharing any more of his thoughts on that. 

He wonders if he should tell Steve what he suspects. But it sounds so nebulous and half-formed, now that he’s trying to think about how he’d articulate it. They make wind and rain and lightning and thunder like any other storm would. It’s just Bucky’s _feeling_ that there’s something more than that. 

And anyway, he can see it too now, the glow on the horizon. He doesn’t want to throw Steve off their game without time to process it. 

But the nervous anticipation in his stomach slides toward something sourer, something that tastes in the back of his throat not quite of fear—he’s too experienced a professional for that yet, when nothing has happened—but near to it. 

Later, he’ll think that’s when he should’ve known it was going to go sideways—like it was fate. 

Now, he watches intently as the dim glow becomes a brighter one, taking over the better portion of the windshield. And then how the glow separates itself into a series of constant, bright flashes, the lightning striking not just white but blue, green, and purple over the horizon. 

The wind is howling around the truck, Bucky can feel it tugging on the wheel as he keeps them on the road. But there’s no rain. Bucky isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or not this time around. 

The thing is moving _fast_, bearing down on them at nearly the same speed as the truck is hurtling them toward it. Barring anything else, this one isn’t going to peter out before they can throw themselves into it, for better or worse. 

It’s hard to say which is louder, the wind or the thunder, now crashing around them without pause, combining into a roar as the truck is buffeted from side to side over the narrow highway. Bucky grits his teeth and tightens his hold on the wheel, and he sees Steve in his periphery bracing his hand on the roof. 

One minute, it still seems that the storm is ahead of them. The next, there’s a blinding flare of lightning just off the road maybe five hundred feet in front of them. Bucky hits the brakes automatically in response to his eyes being clouded for a moment by it, and then continues to slow down, scanning the side of the road for a spot to pull off. 

He sees a fairly cleared area, and pulls hard on the wheel against the wind toward it, taking them off over the grassland as lightning strikes again and again, closer every time. They’ve got to get out and get set up or they’re going to lose the brunt of it sweeping straight past them. 

“Get ready!” he shouts to Steve, and hits the accelerator one more time, taking them directly into the center of a flat open clearing.

They both fling themselves from the truck the second it stops moving. Steve’s face is illuminated as they both come around to the tailgate with the eerie flickering of light off the low hanging clouds. The clouds themselves are still glowing and dancing with color too, separate from the chaotic flash of lightning. 

They’re both moving fast and coordinated, even better than their two previous runs—but there’s a sinking feeling in Bucky’s stomach as he sinks the pilot rod into the soft grass that it’s not enough. 

A tongue of light licks the ground a few yards away and they only have two rods down. Bucky snatches up a third and rams it down while Steve moves to the fourth. 

Something—instinct or experience, he couldn’t say—sets the hairs on the back of Bucky’s neck standing up with impending disaster. He twists, and sees Steve struggling with the lightning rod in his hands. 

Whatever it is warning him, Bucky doesn’t hesitate—he throws himself at Steve with his full force, knocking him aside and the rod out of his hand. 

Bucky’s fingers close around it—just as a crackle of blue lightning splits through the black cloud directly above them.

It hits the rod in his left hand squarely and Bucky’s body seizes up as the charge courses through. 

*

Steve doesn’t freeze up easily. Almost never in fact, thanks to his reflexes. 

But he does now—just for the split second between Bucky’s fingers closing around the rod and the searing charge of lightning hitting it straight on, crackling as it snakes from top to bottom. 

He could tell, even before they’d reached the storm, that they weren’t quite as in sync with it as they should have been. And he’d felt a sick certainty that things had gone awry as he’d tried to place the fourth rod, hitting some kind of underlying rock that set it loose in his grip. Then Bucky’s body had plowed into his—a force that wouldn’t have been enough to knock him off his feet if he’d been braced for it. But he’d stumbled and released the thing, watching helplessly as Bucky’s hand closed around it just ahead of the lightning. 

Steve’s lungs freeze up, his veins stop, his muscles lock in place as if he were the one who’d been electrocuted. 

But just for a fraction of a moment. 

He starts toward Bucky with the shadow of the lightning strike still winking across his vision, not really thinking anything, but perhaps moving on instinct to catch him as he falls.

But Bucky—isn’t falling. Steve blinks, mind and eyes slowly catching up to what he’s seeing. 

Bucky is still standing just the way he had been as he knocked Steve out of the way, his hand wrapped around the center of the lightning rod. 

And the hand, and arm too, are threaded with an eerie, metallic glow, looking just as the rod had with the lightning coursing through it. It begins to fade beneath his skin even as Steve is just registering what he’s seeing, but not before he can see that Bucky’s entire left arm is criss-crossed by some sort of metal—something that evidently absorbed and protected him from the charge that should have killed him. 

What the _fuck?_

Steve has become too accustomed to weird, dangerous tech cropping up where he least expects it not to react. It’s how he’s survived this long. 

He knocks the rod out of Bucky’s hand and grabs the still glowing wrist of Bucky’s left arm, holding it out away from their bodies. Bucky gasps and looks up at Steve a little dazed, and Steve can feel a tingling under his fingers of the energy that was so recently coursing there. 

“What the _fuck_?” He growls, aloud this time. He twists Bucky’s body and shoves him so that his back is to the door of the truck, and Steve pins the wrist of his inexplicable arm to the window, staring at it as the last of the electric strands of light give way to flesh. Bucky isn’t exactly fighting his hold, but it’s still automatic for Steve to neutralize the threat. He has no idea what else it might be capable of—what else _Bucky_ might be capable of if he managed to hide this—

“Steve—” Bucky says, weakly, and Steve notes that his breathing is shallow. He reaches up toward Steve with his other hand, and Steve knocks that one down, pinning it beside Bucky to the truck too. His heart is hammering—he shouldn’t have been caught off guard like that, he’d never _dreamed_ Bucky could be hiding some kind of—some kind of _enhancement_—

“What the _hell_ Bucky?” He tries again, tightening his ruthless grasp on Bucky’s wrist for emphasis. “What is—” 

“Steve, don’t—” Bucky cuts him off, squeezing his eyes shut tight, “don’t…” he trails off, panting. 

And then Steve realizes what it is he’s protesting. 

Steve’s body is pressed up against him, locking him against the truck with both hands pinned up by his sides. Bucky opens his eyes, and his pupils are dark under heavy lids. He slides his tongue out over his bottom lip, and Steve’s eyes are magnetized to the motion even as he becomes all too aware of his hips pinned tight to Bucky’s. And he recognizes with a flash of heat through his stomach that Bucky is _hard_. 

Steve blinks in surprise, grip loosening a fraction. “Oh,” he says, suddenly feeling muddled about how they got into this position. As survival blurs at once toward something much more confused. 

Bucky’s turned on, and the recognition turns Steve on like the switch flipping on a goddamn city grid.

“Steve,” Bucky says again, and this time it’s a desperate. 

Steve’s whole body responds to his name being said like that before his mind can process it. His leg, which had been locked against Bucky’s instep to keep him still, shifts to press his thigh harder between Bucky’s with an entirely different intention. Bucky rolls his hips against him, just the smallest amount of friction that nevertheless drives the last of his confused anger spiraling into fiery _want_. He pushes back against Bucky, and Bucky responds at once, head tipping back against the truck as his back arches. 

Steve drops his grip on Bucky’s right wrist, though he keeps the left pinned to the truck with what little sense of self-preservation he has left, his hand going to the underside of Bucky’s thigh, hitching Bucky’s leg up around his hip to get closer. 

“Yes, god—please—” Bucky pants distractedly as Steve rocks their hips together again and Bucky thrusts back. Steve’s breath is coming fast now too, a little frantic as he tries to reorient himself to the sensation of Bucky grinding off against his thigh. 

And then Bucky’s right hand is at Steve’s belt, fumbling with it briefly. 

“Can I touch you?” Bucky gasps, fingers shaking as he works down Steve’s zipper. 

Steve groans something that he thinks is a _yes_, and then he barely has time to blink before Bucky is shoving his hand down the front of Steve’s jeans, wrapping it around his aching cock (when did that happen?) and all semblance of trying to get his feet under him and think coherently evaporates. 

Steve falls forward against him, forehead hitting the cold glass of the window beside Bucky’s head, his fingers now entwined with Bucky’s right hand holding it fast in place on the other side. Bucky turns his face just enough for Steve to feel the heat of his breath against his ear, rough and erratic. Steve takes in a shuddering sigh and thrusts into the fist now wrapped around him, and Bucky moans directly in his ear, igniting a new fire through his belly to get with the program. 

He drops Bucky’s thigh, and Bucky makes a whine of protest that turns into a groan and a _fuck, yes_, as Steve’s hand moves instead to the fly of his jeans, tipping his stance back enough so that he get his hand down the front of them. 

Touching Bucky like this—Steve feels again like he really might have been the one stuck by lightning after all, for the charge suddenly electrifying every cell. 

It’s everything he’s resolutely refused to let himself think about for the past day, every time he found his eyes following Bucky, or found Bucky’s on him and made himself look away. Nearly everything at least. It’s not Bucky’s dick in his mouth, or Bucky naked and sprawled under him on rumpled motel sheets—but it’s enough. 

“Buck,” Steve gasps, helplessly, mouth pressed to Bucky’s temple as he strokes him, fast and without any strategy other than to make him come as soon as possible. Steve knows he isn’t going to last long with Bucky jerking him this way, panting raggedly in his ear. It’s been so long since he was touched like this, since he’d last allowed his mind to cede full control to his body and to pleasure at the hands of another person. And Bucky is vibrant and writhing and alive against him, every sound he makes drowning him a little deeper in fire as they chase each other to the brink. 

The muscles in Bucky’s thighs and stomach jump and shiver and the rhythm of his hand on Steve’s cock falters as he nears his peak, and Steve gasps a little, unable to restrain himself, “don’t stop.” 

“I won’t,” Bucky says, the end of it breaking away into a guttural moan in his chest that sends goosebumps up Steve’s spine, making him redouble his efforts. 

Bucky gasps again, and then he drops his head and there are lips at Steve’s neck, Bucky’s mouth hot and open just below his ear. He sets his teeth and tongue to the spot, sucking hard at the tender skin with a moan in his throat as he goes rigid for a long moment, spilling over Steve’s fist. 

Steve groans too, even as Bucky starts moving his hand again. He lets his head drop back, allowing Bucky better access as his mouth keeps working at his pulse point, and it only takes another moment rocking his hips into Bucky’s hand before he’s following him over the edge. 

He comes hard, with a small noise he couldn’t keep back if he tried. 

When he comes down, he slumps a little, knees going soft, against Bucky’s body, which he notes distantly is trembling slightly. They both remain still like that for a few long breaths. Bucky’s mouth is still hot under his ear, lips brushing softly, almost imperceptibly where his teeth had just been doing their best to bruise—not quite a kiss. 

But then he pulls back, and Steve stumbles back on his heels, the haze clearing now that the orgasms are over. 

Bucky takes a shaky, settling breath, and they both release each other, Steve stepping back. 

“Um,” Bucky says, and then clears his throat. “Thanks. For that.” 

“Yeah,” Steve says, pretending that his voice isn’t as hoarse as he knows it must be. “You too.” 

Bucky attempts a sort of awkward half-smile, and looks down at his open fly and mess of a hand. Steve feels himself blushing red all the way down his neck as he rearranges himself and zips up his pants with an unsteady hand. 

“Guess we should—get cleaned up. I mean—us—and the stuff,” Bucky says, gesturing with his other hand around at the equipment. Sometime in the past few, frantic minutes the storm moved on around them, leaving the site still and quiet, unlit by anything other than moon and stars, and the harsh glow of the truck’s headlights. The strange glowing clouds have blown past, toward the other horizon, the lightning seemingly having tapered itself out while they were distracted. “Get ready to camp and—and all.” He looks back at Steve again, and manages a better smile this time, a little wry, but real. “But thanks, really.” 

Steve stops the “any time” that wants to pop out of his mouth. He’s not really sure what had fueled what just happened, but he knows it was at least partially brought on by utterly uncontrollable external forces of adrenaline and electricity rather than anything intentional, and he doesn’t want Bucky to feel like he has to explain that to him or let him down about any future circumstances. Something crazy happened, they were both wound up and turned on, and they helped each other out. That’s all. 

So Steve just tries out a reassuring, friendly smile of his own, one that he hopes says “what are friends for?” and nods. 

“How about I handle the storm stuff and you pitch the tent?” He says, then immediately stops himself from flinching at the choice of words. 

Bucky laughs anyway, but spares Steve from acknowledging it beyond that. “Yeah, I can do that.” 

“Hey Buck?” Steve says, and Bucky turns back toward him. 

“Yeah?” Bucky says, a little caution lacing his voice. 

Steve ducks his head in embarrassment. “Any chance you can spare a smoke first?” 

Bucky breaks into a happy grin, and something tense eases off in Steve’s chest at the sight. 

“Fuck yes I can,” Bucky says, and it seems like his shoulders relax, too, along with the lightness of his tone. “I guess we both really, really deserve it.” 

Steve smiles back and it comes easier this time. It’s okay, they’re both going to be okay. He tries not to think about what it would mean to him if they weren’t, especially—especially now. 

They both smoke two cigarettes apiece without much more conversation, and go through the motions of stowing the supplies and setting up a small, rough campsite the same way. But it’s okay. It isn’t bad silence, Steve thinks, glancing every few minutes at Bucky to reassure himself. It didn’t ruin things. 

Between the sex and the smoking, all of the wild adrenaline that had been pumping through his system abandons him completely. Watching the way Bucky’s footsteps drag as he puts the small tent together, he thinks he’s not the only one about ready to drop where he stands. 

They don’t even bother with a fire. Bucky offers to make one, if Steve wants hot food. But his jaw crack around a massive yawn half-way through the sentence, and he looks grateful when Steve declines. He tosses Steve a couple of protein bars and a shake from the cab, and they both down the makeshift dinner quickly—just enough to get them through a little sleep until they can drive again in the morning. 

Steve’s brain picks up just enough as they’re finishing to worry it’s going to be weird, crawling in side by side to the very small tent. But Bucky shucks his jeans and boots utterly unselfconsciously outside of the flap, so Steve does the same. 

They each climb into their own sleeping bag on a thin bedroll, and Bucky shuts off the electric lantern he’d hung in the center of the small tent.

He’s listening to Bucky’s breathing, heavy with sleep almost the moment he set his head down, letting it lull him into drifting off too. 

It’s only as he’s teetering on the brink of sleep that he remembers what had escaped him, driven out by the hazy rush of Bucky moaning in his ear. 

He’d forgotten all about Bucky’s arm. 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _So we roll and we rage_   
_Small scale destruction_   
_Scorched earth, your skin_   
_We're speaking storms_   
_We're all electric_
> 
> Thunder, Brook Fraser


	4. I've Got Chills, They're Multiplying

The sun wakes them up bright and brutal on the hot canvas of the tent. Steve’s t-shirt is sticking to his back and he’s kicked his way entirely out of the sleeping bag at some point during the night. 

Or at least, he thinks it’s the sun that woke him. But then he realizes that Bucky is rustling around at the zipper on the tent flap, and that he hadn’t…exactly kept to his side of the tent during the night. His arms are sprawled over well into Bucky’s territory and he has to consider the fact that Bucky is sneaking out because _he_ woke up with Steve’s arms around him. Jesus Christ. 

He _definitely_ can’t do that again, if that was the case. Especially now. Clinging to Bucky is exactly the opposite of the impression he wanted to give after—after yesterday. He can picture exactly what Bucky’s face would look like if he feels like he has to let Steve down gently, telling him he really likes him but it didn’t mean more than a physical release, it was just adrenaline. It happens. Steve doesn’t want to have that conversation even a little bit. And honestly sharing a small space, it wasn’t even like he’d ended up…spooning Bucky or whatever he was doing because of what happened. He just hasn’t shared a bed space with another body in a while and he gravitated towards him. Probably. 

Hopefully tonight they’ll be back in separate motel beds again and it can be avoided entirely. 

Steve gets up and makes for the tent flap, tugging his jeans over and shuffling into them as best he can from the awkward position of sitting on the ground. But he doesn’t want to go walking around into their campsite pantless and increase whatever impression he’s already accidentally given about his expectations here. 

Which are? A corner of his mind itches with the question. He tells himself forcefully that the answer is _nothing_, but he knows it’s only a half-truth at best. 

His eyes are wide-open about the realities of what they’d done yesterday. It had been unplanned and unexpected and that’s _fine_. The problem is that unfortunately just because it had been unplanned doesn’t mean that for him, at least, that it had been unwanted. He’s been wanting Bucky for days now, if he’s honest. But that doesn’t change the dynamic and he’s not going to pretend that it’s the same for Bucky. 

It’s just that Steve hasn’t had a sexual connection with anyone in this century. Of _course_ it’s going to be more complicated for him to just let it be what it is. But he’s a grown man, he can play it cool. Probably. 

More pressing, in the light of day, is the issue of whatever the _fuck_ is the deal with Bucky’s arm. Thinking about it more clearly now, it seems obvious that it’s some kind of modification that makes his work possible. But where he would have acquired it, what exactly it does, and what else he may be keeping to himself is another story. 

Steve sighs and scrubs his hands over his face. He doesn’t really want to have that conversation either, even if it’s necessary. 

He climbs out of the tent, and finds Bucky bleary-eyed and brushing his teeth from the spigot of a keg of water he has in the back of the truck. Steve swallows and moves to do the same. Better to feel at least marginally human before they get into any of it. 

“S’later than I thought,” Bucky mumbles around a foamy mouth of toothpaste when he sees Steve. He spits it onto the dirt and rinses his toothbrush. “Don’t normally sleep that well on the ground.” 

“I—oh?” Steve asks, helplessly. Maybe he hadn’t been too clingy then. Or Bucky hadn’t minded—? He shuts down that train of thought before it can get up a good head of steam. 

“Almost ten,” Bucky replies, indirectly. “You hungry?” 

Steve nods fervently, brushing his teeth as fast as he can. “Starving.” 

Bucky smiles, and his face is slightly creased from his travel pillow, making him look even more rumpled than his still sleepy expression. “Me too. Glad you put the stuff away last night that’s—that’s better than usual when I have to do it all after I wake up. We can throw the tent and stuff in the back and hit the road now.” 

Steve’s chest feels light as he nods, and reminds himself what he’d repeated so many times last night. Bucky is okay, they’re okay, nothing has to be weird. 

Except what’s already weird. That being the arm and however Bucky might be using it in service of the as yet indeterminate intentions of Blackstone. The reminders of it are everywhere, dark patches of scorched earth dotting the grass all around their campsite, and the thought sobers Steve up in short order. 

They’re both quiet and, at least on Steve’s end, a little pensive as they hit the highway. The road is still pretty empty, though Steve doesn’t know this area well enough to know if that’s normal or a result of the storm.

“We’re not too far from town I think actually,” Bucky says after a few minutes, peering at the map on his phone. 

“Great, I won’t worry about my stomach growling disgusting you before then,” Steve jokes. 

Sure enough, about a half an hour later they can see the edges of buildings up ahead. 

As it turns out, Steve’s stomach is the least on the list of worrying things by the time they get to it. 

The back of Steve’s neck begins to prickle before he can really see anything to justify the suspicious, bad feeling in his stomach. 

But by the time the town is truly in view he has more than ample evidence. There are thin lines of smoke rising from several different spots across the skyline from the buildings. As they draw even nearer, Steve can see that the skyline itself is more ragged than it should be, thanks to several structures caved in and scattered across their plots. 

When they hit the edge of town they’re greeted by the site of both civilians and soldiers—National Guard by the look of their uniforms—working steadily at the wreckage. A half-burned out feedstore, the caved in roof of an apartment building, a handful of blackened and demolished houses. 

“Did the storm do this?” Steve asks, although the answer seems to be an obvious yes. 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, voice strained. 

“Is that—normal? For an electrical storm I mean?” 

“No.” Bucky’s reply is terse, his face tight as he observes the destruction. 

Bucky slows the truck as they make their way down Main Street, watching as a fire crew works to put out the still smoldering blaze of a two story building that looks to have been a hotel and restaurant. 

Steve’s shoulders are tense watching people crawling over the rubble, and his knuckles are white on the door handle. Bucky darts him a troubled look. 

“Should we—do you want to stop?” Bucky asks. 

Steve watches the smoke rising above the water blasting from the fire hose, wondering if they should. If he’s obligated to offer help. But he shakes his head. 

“No I think—it looks like it’s under control. I don’t know what I—we could do here.” 

Bucky nods tightly and drives on. 

Steve doubts his decision several times before they come out on the other side of town as they see that the storm had swept through the entirety of it, burning and leveling shops and homes clear through. But some things even Steve can’t change, and it’s clear that the worst of it is over. It’s on to cleaning up the mess now. It makes him anxious, thinking about the months he’d spent at that very task in New York—feeling guilty the whole time about his part in it and ineffectual in his ability to make the process any faster. Super strength makes knocking things down a lot easier, but it doesn’t really expedite building them back up. It’s frustrating, and it was a large factor in the almost desperate need he eventually felt to get away from the city by the end. 

Bucky is quiet too, his face drawn and brooding. Steve wonders what he’s thinking, and if he feels any of the insidious guilt Steve does about the devastated town. It’s not like Bucky had any control of that storm but still—it’s his work, and work he enjoys. Seeing the other side of it can’t feel easy or good for him. 

Bucky lets out a long, withheld breath through his nose as they put the last line of town in the rearview, and Steve looks over at him. 

He clears his throat. “Might be a little longer til food than I promised.” 

“It’s okay,” Steve says softly, understanding the request for reassurance underneath it. 

“It’s not, really,” is all Bucky says in return. Steve isn’t sure if he’s imagining that Bucky’s hands are a little shaky on the wheel. 

_He’s a good person_, whispers a corner of Steve’s mind. 

They drive for a good hour in a silence that’s full of unsaid things before he can feel Bucky’s tension starting to relax a little bit. He tries to take in some even breaths too, and release his death grip on the door handle. 

He’s lost in thoughts and memories from New York that he can’t bid away even though he’s trying when Bucky says, “Hey Steve?” And his tone is suddenly brighter, a little teasing, shaking Steve out of his preoccupation to look over surprised. 

“Yeah?” 

“What kind of stuff were you planning to see on this Americana road trip of yours?” 

Steve’s eyebrows come together with in brief confusion at the shift in subject. “Um—I don’t know. Didn’t really have a plan. Just figured I’d stop whenever I saw something worth stopping at.” 

“So like, was ‘world’s largest such and such’ on the list?” 

Steve blushes, a smile tugging at his mouth despite himself and he answers sheepishly but honestly, “Maybe.” 

“How about World’s Largest Prickly Pear?” Bucky asks, and he looks over with a glint in his eyes over a small smile of his own. 

Steve opens his mouth, perplexed, but then notices what Bucky already had just before they pass it—a billboard in fact advertising WORLD’S LARGEST PRICKLY PEAR, with a cartoon cactus waving one arm, a glass of something bright pink with a curly straw in the other cactus-hand. 

Steve laughs. “Mighta made the list, sure.” 

“You still hungry?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Well then,” Bucky says, a full grin on his face now. “Looks like we’re about to try some shit made out of prickly pears.” He flicks on his blinker, despite the empty road, and tugs the wheel to take them toward the offramp. 

They weave around a country road through scraggly hills—the first not flat landscape Steve’s seen in a couple of days—and around a bend in the road where their vision is immediately filled with something tall and violently pink. It really is just—an absurdly giant prickly pear. How about that? 

The sculpture is about thirty feet tall, sitting in a little clearing with a small storefront behind, touting signs for “prickly pear lemonade! Prickly pear jelly! Souvenir prickly pears!” 

Bucky pulls the truck to a stop under the shade of a tree off to the side of the dirt parking lot. 

“Okay,” he says, cheerfully. “Here’s what we’ll do—you drop the tailgate and find us something to sit on, meanwhile _I_ am going to go and find out what kind of feasting this lovely establishment has to delight our senses with. Be right back.” 

Steve shakes his head, laughing as Bucky hops out of the truck and makes for the storefront. 

The shade of the tree is nice, and there’s even a small breeze running across the parking lot, rustling the leaves overhead. 

He drops the tailgate as instructed, and snags one of the sleeping bags they’d slept in last night to spread over the hot plastic. He lets his heels kick off the end, and leans back on both arms, tipping his face up to catch the breeze, eyes shut. 

He opens them again when he hears the crunching gravel of Bucky’s footsteps returning, and finds Bucky precariously balancing a tray stacked with food containers. 

“Okay!” Bucky says, setting the tray down on the tailgate next to Steve and rubbing his hands together with glee. “We’ve got—prickly pear lemonade as promised, here,” he hands Steve one of the two tall drink containers and Steve peers into a cup of liquid the same shocking pink as the sculpture with only a little skepticism. “Prickly pear lemon bars and prickly pear gumdrops here” he points to a couple of stacked clear containers, “and nopalitos con huevos y pollo here,” he points to the other two trays, “which I gather is the cactus-y part of the plant and therefore disappointingly not pink. But hopefully still tasty. And they are making up some nopalitos fries as we speak, so should just be a minute. Eat up!” 

Steve snorts a laugh. “I don’t…even know where to start.”

“Well I would personally start with a gumdrop since it’s the weirdest, and work your way back,” Bucky says with mock seriousness, his eyes crinkled. “Or you could start with the lemonade which seems easiest and work up instead—” he breaks off, and Steve can hear the buzzing of his phone in his pocket. 

Bucky pulls it out and looks at the screen, smile dropping. 

“I’m sorry I should—I gotta take this,” he says, looking unhappy as he slides off the tailgate. “You get started, I’ll—I won’t take long.” 

He crunches away to the next stand of trees, bringing his phone to his ear as Steve watches with a small frown. 

Steve takes a sip of the lemonade. It’s good—not as intense a flavor as the color would indicate, more like a little bit of a melon hint to what lemonade usually tastes like. So he follows Bucky’s suggestion and reaches for the gumdrops instead, trying to focus on the tray in front of him. 

He tries not to listen to Bucky’s phone call. He really does. 

But super hearing makes even the best intentions of not eavesdropping hard. And he can’t help as Bucky’s side of the conversation drifts over to him across the empty parking lot. 

“—didn’t get great readings in the middle, it was pretty unpredictable, moved fast—” he’s saying, then stops, listening. “Yeah we—I saw it.” He pauses again. “Yeah it was bad. Whole town—broad scope.” Steve can tell even at this distance as Bucky kicks his toe at a tree root that his expression isn’t pleased. “I don’t know Richardson, maybe a square mile? Fires mostly, some collapses, it was pretty windy so maybe that—” another pause. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen an electrical storm do that much damage on it’s own, it isn’t—yeah. Okay. Sure.” 

There’s another long silence as Bucky listens to the person on the other end of the line. When they’re done, Bucky clears his throat nervously, and starts, “Look, Richardson I’m not sure I’m completely comfortable with what you’re asking here—” he breaks off, and whatever is said on the other end makes him hitch his shoulders up, tense around his ears. “Yeah I _know_ what my job description is but I—” a pregnant pause. “Yes I know what breach of contract means. _No_ there’s not a problem, if you could just—yes, I understand. I’m still on schedule. Right, I will.” 

He adds a soft _fuck_ as he brings the phone down from his ear that Steve can tell wasn’t meant for the person on the other end of the phone line. 

He stands still a moment, his back to Steve, before turning toward him with and hitching a smile back on his face. 

It doesn’t do anything to lift the heavy feeling that has settled into Steve’s stomach at the content of the conversation, and the types of questions clearly being asked on the other end. 

“I’ll—get the fries,” Bucky calls over, gesturing to the stand. Steve can’t help but feel like Bucky is stalling for a little more time to collect himself back into cheeriness for his sake. 

He trudges over to the counter, leaning in as the older woman behind it hands him another tray. His expression is faltering as he returns to Steve and the truck, forced smile wavering as if he just doesn’t quite have the energy to spend on keeping it up. 

“Bucky…” Steve starts, as Bucky climbs back up to sit beside him. 

Bucky shakes his head and gives Steve a pained look. “Steve, please—just—give me a minute, okay? Before you start?” 

Steve clenches his teeth together tight, feeling the muscle in his jaw jumping. But he nods. “Okay.” 

Bucky clears his throat and peers down at the tray of nopalitos fries in his lap. “So, what’s your review? Yes or no on prickly pear?” 

Steve lets out a small sigh at Bucky putting off what feels inevitable. But he answers anyway, “Not bad. Thought it would taste pinker though.” 

Bucky looks up with a startled chuckle, “pinker?” 

“Yeah the color is _so_ pink I thought—I dunno I thought it would taste pinker.” He huffs a laugh, “Just try it, you’ll see what I mean.” 

Bucky’s mouth tips up at one corner and he takes a sip of his lemonade. “Huh. That does taste, like, blush colored at best doesn’t it? Interesting.” 

He subsides into silence as they make their way through the rest of the food, though Steve notices that Bucky continues to flick nervous glances at him, as if Steve is going to launch a verbal attack by surprise and he wants to be ready for it. 

Steve _could_. He’s got plenty of ammo and questions built up for it. But he chooses to wait, to allow Bucky the opportunity to walk into it with eyes open instead, after he’s taken his requested minute of delaying. 

Finally, Steve’s patience is rewarded. Bucky sets down the last few bites of his plate of cactus-y eggs with a sigh, and looks up to meet Steve’s eyes determinedly. 

“Okay.” He says, face hard. “Ask me what you want to know.” 

“Your arm?” It’s out of Steve’s mouth before he can even consider whether he should prioritize the many burning questions and concerns that have built up inside of him this past day. 

Bucky’s mouth twists, and he looks away quickly. But he turns back to Steve almost at once, making himself look at him straight on. 

“Right, that. The arm is—” he hesitates, reaching for the words. “Modified. To be a closed circuit, so that if anything happened—like it did yesterday—the charge from the lightning would loop through it and back out rather than turning my whole body into a giant conductor and probably frying my heart.”

Steve tries to process that, struggling with the concept as much on a personal level as a scientific one. “What—what is it, exactly? What did they do?” 

Bucky shrugs, unconsciously twisting his right hand around his left wrist. “It’s kinda complicated. I just know it involved them threading a web of surgical grade steel directly under the skin and—” he looks away again, “and replacing the upper part of my humerus and uh—a couple of carpals. Also with steel.” He holds up his hand now, flexing his wrist and fingers. “I’d never know the difference—if I hadn’t had to use it a couple of times.” 

Steve is breathing very hard through his nose now, trying to maintain his composure. “And when you say them—you mean Blackstone?” 

Bucky swallows hard and nods. “Yeah. It was a uh—recruitment perk.” 

Steve’s temper boils over in him at the casualness in Bucky’s tone—he brings his fist down, hard and clanging on the bed of the truck. “_Damn it_ Bucky they—they _experimented_ on you and you think that’s _normal_? Some kind of job benefit?” He demands, angrily. 

Bucky draws himself up, cheeks red as he glares back at Steve, his own temper obviously rising. “I’d be dead about four times over without it, so _yeah_ I consider it a benefit I wouldn’t have had without signing on with—” 

“Dead doing a dangerous thing for _them_, can’t you see how exploitative it—” 

Bucky cuts over him, voice rising, “_You’re_ one to talk about the ethics of pimping yourself out as the subject of experimental procedures Steve, honestly what—” 

Steve makes an incredulous gesture, “We were at _war_ Bucky, it was different!” 

Bucky narrows his eyes, and his words drop dangerously low and measured. “And the aliens who ripped a hole in the sky and almost leveled New York this year? What do you call that?” 

The question is unexpected, and it sets Steve back on his heels. “That’s not—it isn’t—”

“You think lightning storms _normally_ take out entire towns out here Steve? It’s not even—fuck it isn’t even the right _season_ for lightning. It’s _not_ normal. And if you think that storms ripping apart the atmosphere that act like that—look like that—have nothing to do with what happened in New York, or New Mexico even then—then you’re kidding yourself.” He drops his gaze to his left hand, curled into a painful looking fist on his thigh, and very deliberately opens it, running his palm unsteadily over his thigh. “New York changed things. _You_ changed things. So maybe we are at war. Or maybe we’re gonna be—but either way I think you and I oughta agree that ‘normal’ is a stupid word for either of us to try to use with a straight face.” 

He finishes his speech with a shaky exhale. And Steve finds he doesn’t have anything to say to that. Probably because Bucky is right. Normal went by the wayside for him a long time ago—but he took it for granted that it was still one of those commodities most people traded in. It seems like maybe he should have been paying more attention—literally—to the changes in the wind. 

Steve slumps in his seat, and pinches at the bridge of his nose, where he can feel the veritable canyon of concern between his eyebrows. 

“And the phone call?” He asks, with another heavy sigh. 

“What about it?” Bucky asks, his tone flat. 

“It’s not—” Steve stops, frustrated. He needs Bucky to hear him on this, and not to dismiss it as prejudice on Tony or anyone else’s behalf. Bucky’s supervisor’s obvious interest in the destructive capabilities of last night’s storm can’t be ignored. “I don’t think this is all what you hope, Bucky.” 

Bucky chews on his bottom lip. “Yeah I—I think you might be right.” 

His voice is thick with misery. So Steve asks the next question softer. “What are we gonna do, Buck?” 

Bucky looks up, and his eyes are shining a little more glassily than they were before, and his throat is working as well, Steve sees with a jolt. 

“I don’t know,” Bucky says back, just above a whisper. “I don’t know yet.” 

“Will you…let me know? When you do?” 

Bucky nods, and turns his head away, brushing surreptitiously under his eyes, which Steve pretends not to notice. 

“I’ll be in this with you, if you let me,” Steve says. Immediately he hears how it sounds and adds, a little too hastily, “With Blackstone, I mean.” 

Bucky just nods again, still looking off distantly the other direction. 

“Did it—does it still hurt? When you get struck?” Steve asks, hesitantly. 

Bucky looks down at his hand, turning his palm up on his leg. “Not as much as it would without it. But yeah, it doesn’t feel great. It pretty much freezes the rest of my body up while it’s happening. Still get an entry burn, sometimes.” He holds his palm out to Steve, so that Steve can see the small branching red burn on the heel of his hand. 

Steve reaches out, then stops himself, pulling his hand back. “Can I—?”

Bucky nods. Steve takes his hand gently in both of his, brushing his fingers around the spot, careful not to touch it directly. “It…looks just like lightning.” 

Bucky laughs weakly. “Yeah—it’s something about the blood vessels bursting. But it really just looks like a calling card. Call me Harry Potter I guess.” 

“Who?” 

Bucky smiles and shakes his head. “Nevermind.” 

Steve keeps his hold on Bucky’s hand, moving his fingers up gingerly to press along the bones in his wrist, seeing if he can feel any evidence of the ones they’d replaced with metal. 

“You can—you can feel some of the threads, under the skin,” Bucky says, a bit hoarsely. 

Steve runs his hand further up Bucky’s arm, pressing gently. Sure enough, there’s the faintest trace of something distinctly hard there, under the pliant layer of Bucky’s flesh. 

Bucky stretches his arm out straight toward Steve, offering him a better look. He finds one of the lines of metal with his fingertips, tracing it up the inside of Bucky’s forearm to his elbow, and circling around his bicep toward his shoulder. His fingers find the joint at the top of Bucky’s humerus, but just like his wrist Steve can’t really feel the difference between the metal and bone there. Bucky is breathing shallowly, and there are the beginnings of goosebumps creeping up his arm behind the trail of Steve’s fingertips. Steve lets his hand come to a rest with the heel pressing against his shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly for a moment. 

“Anything else you wanted to ask me?” Bucky asks, and his voice is low and goes straight to Steve’s gut. 

There’s several questions presenting themselves to him at the moment, but they’re all along the lines of _do you want to touch me like I want to touch you?_ and _what if we slipped up again but this time it was real?_ and _what would you do if I kissed you right now?_ so Steve just shakes his head, letting his hand drop from Bucky’s arm. 

“Steve are we…okay?” Bucky’s voice is smaller that it was before. “For now, anyway?” 

Steve sighs. “Yeah Buck, we’re okay.” 

Bucky’s jaw works as he looks away again. “Gonna start heading west today. Should be near Santa Fe in another day or two. Depending on the weather.” 

There’s a fist suddenly squeezing around Steve’s lungs at the reminder that the time left before they’re supposed to part ways is so short. He should’ve remembered they would be drawing near. He should have been thinking already of his excuses to convince Bucky to let him stay. A good excuse, anyway, so that he doesn’t blurt out any of the real reasons that he isn’t ready to leave him yet, which seem as likely to bring on that very result ahead of schedule as anything else. 

It’s been good, these days of having someone else to talk to, to think about, to care about. And having somebody care about him, too, maybe. 

Steve resolves to let it be good for however many are left. And if Bucky will let him help make things better for him before their time is done…

He’ll take what he can get. 

*

Bucky feels tired and stretched thin in a way that he usually never does on a day that doesn’t include some sort of life-threatening danger. 

The still, waning hours of the afternoon are filtering by them when he finally sees the next town crop up on the map ahead of them. But he’s dying just for a shower, a little food, and to fall into bed for the next twelve hours minimum. 

It’d be easier if he could tell himself it’s from camping out last night, where he normally doesn’t sleep well. But he knows that’s not really it. It’s everything else about today that has made it feel so exhausting just _being_. 

He’s sick to death of the loop in his brain wondering what he’s going to do. About Blackstone, around which the doubts and worries are piling up at an alarming rate he knows he can’t just ignore any more. About Steve, and what he’s thinking about it all. Wondering if Steve thinks he’s crazy, or that Bucky doesn’t see how suspect it all is, or maybe that he’s stupid for the fact that he’s always been able to brush those suspicions away before Steve forced him to look at himself. And to top it all off, wondering if Steve is thinking as much as he is about how it had all ended yesterday—the tangle of their bodies and blood high as they’d made each other come. 

He’d been hopped up on adrenaline, more potent a drug than any liquid courage he could work up in a bar, so he feels like his absolute loss of self-control and dignity was excusable. And Steve…hadn’t minded either, it seems. To say the least. Maybe it’s just like that, like after battles or whatever—blood pumping, sometimes you just gotta take care of it. For each other. But he knows he wouldn’t need another near fatal calamity to talk him into a second round. 

He just…can’t think about it any more. Resisting the urge to do it again is draining his life force. He’s _got_ to get some sleep and turn it all off for a little while. 

Things look up slightly as they near town and find that it’s a large enough one to have a real dot on the map, which means it also has a half-way decent chain hotel with its own restaurant—a luxury almost unparalleled in life on the road. It means he won’t have to pray against all odds that the shower is clean and has enough water pressure for two showers in a row, and that’s really all a weary traveler can ask for. 

They pull into a parking spot at the hotel, and Bucky drags his overnight bag out of the back as Steve does the same. 

“I’ll check us in,” Bucky says, unnecessarily. He’s done it both nights before, and Steve hadn’t even moved this time to come with him. He just smiles back and nods, also looking done-in. 

Unfortunately, his bubble of optimism deflates nearly as quickly as it had inflated when he sees the crowd of people milling around the hotel lobby. For some god-forsaken reason he and Steve are _not_ the only people staying in this hotel tonight, not by a long shot. 

He waits dutifully as the lone receptionist works her way through her line, handing out key cards and extra pillows and cups and whatever else, letting his mind wander. 

When it’s finally his turn at the counter he works up a smile on his rusty-feeling face—this lady is clearly having a day of it too. 

“What can I do for you honey?” She asks in a tired voice.

“Hi, checking in. Need a double.” 

“Sure—you with the McClannon family or the Walter High reunion?” 

Bucky frowns, “Oh um—neither, sorry. Just me and a buddy here for the night on our way through.” 

He can tell before he finishes the sentence that things aren’t going his way—probably thanks to the fucking McClannons, whoever they are—as her face falls halfway through. 

“Oh sugar, we’ve been pretty busy all weekend—had a couple of block reservations…” she clacks away at the keyboard in front of her, and then looks up, apologetic. “I’m sorry but all I’ve got available right now is a king.” 

Bucky feels his own face fall. “Do you—have two? King rooms?” He couldn’t put them both on his Blackstone card, he thinks, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world to ask Steve to come book his own this time around—and if he’s recognized, oh well, he can hide out in his private room and deal. 

But the receptionist shakes her head. “It’s really just the one room left, real sorry.” 

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and rubs at his temple. He’s _too fucking tired_ for this shit. He supposes he could get back in the truck…try to find something else. Maybe this town is big and busy enough for two hotels. But he wouldn’t put money on it, and definitely not the quality of whatever else there is. He just wants a shower and some sleep. 

Fuck it. 

“Okay,” he says, opening his eyes deciding he’ll just deal with the situation as best he can _after_ he’s clean. “I’ll take it.” 

The lady looks relieved, like she was worried he was going to yell at her. In five minutes he’s holding two keycards, trudging back to the truck and trying to determine how to explain this to Steve. 

Steve’s door swings open as he approaches the truck, and Bucky scratches awkwardly at the back of his neck. 

“So they’re really busy I guess, not a lot of space—”

“Oh,” Steve says, halting his forward momentum and hovering his hand at the door handle. “No space? Do we need to keep looking?”

“It, um—” Bucky glances back toward the lobby door as if for succor, “they only had one left but—it’s a king, not a double. I went ahead and took it, but if you’d rather we can keep driving—” he adds. 

Steve shakes his head quickly, and Bucky can tell in the light from the streetlamp that his cheeks are red. “No! No that’s—it’s fine. Not a big deal.” 

“Oh, okay good,” Bucky says with a sigh of relief. “We’re on the end over here.” 

Steve trails after him to a room on the end of the long building, the drone of the ice machine a comforting white noise as he fumbles with the key card in the slot to let them both in. 

Bucky blinks against the bright glare of the overhead light as they step inside, and takes stock. 

It’s a pretty straightforward hotel room. Better than the last couple of motels they’ve stayed in—cleaner, certainly, if a little more bland in the decor. And there is, of course, in the middle of the room, just the one bed. 

He avoids looking at Steve for his reaction, moving around to the far side of the bed and dumping his bag on the chair in the corner. 

“I don’t know about you, but I’m dying for a shower.” Bucky can hear the forced brightness in his voice, and he winces internally. But he can’t stop either, filling the silence hovering over the large, tidily made mattress between them. “And then some food—I bet we could order up? No!—I mean we can just go down to the restaurant when we’re ready?” He turns to Steve with burning cheeks and his shower bag clutched with both hands in front of himself. 

One corner of Steve’s mouth twists up in a knowing smile as he stands on the other side of the bed, backpack still slung over his shoulder. “Sure, whatever you want.” 

“Great,” Bucky gasps. And then he flees into the sanctity of the bathroom, letting the door smack closed with a decisive click. 

So, this is going great. 

He showers hastily, running the water just this side of too hot to stand. He doesn’t think it would do him any favors to linger. Idle hands and all that. 

Bucky dries off with the same efficiency, pulling on sweats and a t-shirt. He runs his fingers through his hair, working out some of the snarls that the wind had put into it over the past day or so, and slips out of the steamed up bathroom. The glaring overhead light is off now, in favor of the warm glow of the two bedside lamps sitting on either side of the bed. 

Steve stands up at once, shower things already in his hands, looking about as jumpy as Bucky feels as he sidles past him into the bathroom with a muttered “thanks.” It should make him feel better that he’s not the only one off balance here—but it doesn’t. 

Bucky flings himself onto the bed with a huff, trying to remind his suddenly humming nerves that he was _very ready to sleep_ not so long ago. 

He pages blindly through the binder of info on his side table, eyes refusing to focus on the menus of nearby restaurants offering delivery, or any of the fun facts about local sites. 

Soon, too soon, he hears the shower shutting off again. Steve reappears not long after, in sweats and a clean t-shirt of his own, toweling absently at his hair. He sits gingerly on the very edge of his side of the bed, and Bucky sits up self-consciously from his sprawl. 

“There’s some places we could order from, if we don’t want to brave the McClannon family reunion probably happening in the dining room,” Bucky says tentatively, offering the binder to him. He’s not sure staying alone with Steve in this room is a good idea, even if he’s not enthused about the idea of venturing out again.

Steve leans over to accept it but Bucky fumbles and lets go before he’s got a hold of it—which results in it falling to the bed between them, which results in the both of them reaching for it, which results in their hands briefly clasped over each other as well as the cracked spine of the binder. They both freeze for a split second, before Bucky yanks his hand back like he’s been burned. 

Steve’s neck is pink all the way to the tips of his ears as he looks very hard at the first page of the binder, which Bucky happens to know just contains the hotel address and front desk phone number. 

“Menus are on page eight,” Bucky says, faintly. 

“Oh—good. Thanks,” Steve says back. He flips a few pages and looks down without seeming to take much in. Then he snaps the binder shut and stands, looking around wildly before seizing on the ice bucket from beside the television, and brandishing it toward Bucky without actually looking at him. “Are you thirsty? I’m really thirsty. I’m gonna go grab some ice. I’ll be right back.” 

Bucky groans as soon as the door shuts behind Steve, flopping back against the pillows and covering his face with his hands. This is terrible. There’s no way they’re gonna make it through the night without anyone doing anything awkward—or rather anything _more_ awkward. 

He swings his legs over to the floor and sits on the edge of the bed, running his hand distractedly through his hair, trying to think. 

Obviously Steve is still feeling the tension too. So it could be worse if the real thirst in the room was all coming from Bucky. But Steve clearly isn’t going to say or do anything about it either. 

Maybe if they just took the bull by the horns—another easy quickie to dispel all the tension in the air and let them both get some rest? 

He hears the snick of Steve’s keycard in the door, and he decides not to overthink it. He stands and moves toward the door as it swings open, letting Steve back in. 

Steve sets down the now full ice bucket and his keycard on the little console table just inside the door, and then looks up bemused when he sees Bucky coming toward him. 

“Sorry, did you need something else while I’m…?”

Bucky shakes his head, and chews on his bottom lip. Steve’s still standing just inside room, with the closed door at his back, hand lingering on the handle. Bucky takes another step forward—past reasonable conversational distance, into Steve’s space—and puts a hand on Steve’s waist. 

Steve looks up at him with a quick inhale, eyes wide. 

“Steve, this is—a lot. With the sleeping in the same bed, after everything,” Bucky says, trying to sound lighter and more confident than he feels. “What if we just—took the edge off? Like we did yesterday. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.” 

He leans in closer, settling the other hand on the other side of Steve’s waist. Steve’s body is very still. 

“We could just…help each other out,” Bucky adds in a murmur. 

Steve’s eyes flutter shut, which Bucky takes as encouragement to press in closer and let his fingers work on the ties at Steve’s waistband. He can feel how Steve’s body at least is warming to the idea, his soft sweatpants disguising little, and Bucky’s breathing hitches a little in anticipation. Yesterday, with Steve’s hands on him, Steve’s body pinning him to the door of the truck—it had been good. And he’d _absolutely_ spared like, at least 20% of his brain energy all day today, even when they’d been arguing, probably, to thinking about whether there’d be an excuse to do it again as soon as he could reasonably suggest it. 

He leans in and presses his thigh harder between Steve’s as he finishes with the knot on Steve’s sweats, running his finger under the waistband to loosen it, and Steve widens his stance. A corner of Bucky’s mind wishes he could take his time—but that wouldn’t hold up to the same kind of scrutiny as being a casual, mutual helping hand. So he slips his thumbs under the elastic, intending to slide it down over Steve’s hips. 

But then Steve’s hands dart to his, gripping his wrists and holding them still, and Steve’s eyes fly open. His mouth is slightly parted, breath already coming more shallowly than normal. But as turned on as he looks, there’s also something else there in his expression that stops Bucky more forcefully than the grip holding him still. He leans back to search Steve’s face. It’s something like fear, he realizes. Underneath the dilation of his pupils, he looks…pleading. 

“Wait—I don’t—not like this.”

Bucky takes a real step back now, releasing the top of Steve’s sweats at once, though Steve keeps holding onto him. 

“It’s okay, Steve,” Bucky says rocking back on his heels, putting as much reassurance into it as he can, even as his heart sinks. “We don’t have to—I’m sorry.” He ducks his head, feeling an embarrassed and guilty wave of regret for misreading this, for putting Steve in the position to have to fend him off, which was the _last_ thing he’d wanted. “I was just kidding about the bed—we can just sleep. Or I can take the ground if you want, if it’s weird now, really it’s okay...” 

Steve’s shaking his head, and Bucky lets the statement trail off. 

“It’s not that, Bucky, I—” Steve looks down at where his hands are wrapped around Bucky’s, and swallows hard. 

“Then what?” Bucky asks. He isn’t sure what Steve wants from him, or what line he crossed doing this here and now without a storm raging around them to justify it and if he should’ve known better. Maybe this is still too hard for Steve to walk into like this, too intimate, without the cover of adrenaline spurring him on and stopping him from thinking too hard about it. 

Steve looks up, and meets Bucky’s gaze. And the uncertainty gives way to something more determined. 

“I meant,” Steve says, voice low, and Bucky just stares back at him, waiting, and Steve swallows again. “I want more than that.”

Bucky takes in a quick, small breath, not sure if Steve intends what he thinks he does by that statement, and hoping against hope that he might. 

“What kind of more are we talking about?”

Steve releases Bucky’s wrists, sliding his hands up to cup either side of Bucky’s neck, and answers the question by drawing him in closer. Bucky’s head tips back of its own accord, leaning into the cradling pressure of Steve’s hand slipping through the hair at his nape. His eyes fall shut.

And then Steve Rogers kisses him. 

Steve’s lips are soft on his, tentative at first like a whisper. It’s not casual, but something too tender entirely for them to be able to write off later as meaningless lust, and Bucky lets himself sink into it, knowing that whatever it means it’s something new. He lets Steve move slowly, savoring the three burning points of connection between them—Steve’s hands cupping his jaw, and Steve’s mouth parting just slightly to taste Bucky’s. 

Then Steve is gone, pulling away again and Bucky opens his eyes a little dazed. He feels fuzzy, like he might have wandered into some kind of a dream—because surely Steve kissing him like _that_ is too good to be true. 

“Is that okay?” Steve whispers, searching Bucky’s face intently. He’s so sincere, so real, and yet so perfectly uncertain at the same time, it’s just enough to convince Bucky that this is actually happening. 

He wants Steve to kiss him again, and again, and maybe never stop. Kissing Steve is somehow, absurdly, so much more intimate and exposed than anything they shared yesterday that he feels drunk on it. On Steve _really_ wanting him, like this. 

Bucky’s whole body is on fire as he nods, “Yes, god, more than—please, just kiss me again—”

Relief floods Steve’s features for a split second, then he’s pulling Bucky to him again. This time it’s Bucky who pushes the kiss forward, eagerly parting his lips under Steve’s until Steve’s tongue sweeps into it again and again and there’s nothing tentative about how their mouths are moving against each other, the kisses hot and hungry. 

Bucky pushes back into Steve’s space, hands free now to tangle in Steve’s silky gold hair because Steve’s hands are suddenly _everywhere_—splaying across Bucky’s back to crush him up tight against him, wandering up to comb through Bucky’s long hair and slide along his jaw, and down finally to tug at his hips, urging him to grind them against Steve’s. Bucky groans into Steve’s mouth, knees going watery even as the bottom of his stomach drops out. Steve lets out a desperate panting sound of his own, like all the breath being pushed out of his chest, and kisses Bucky even more fiercely. 

Bucky lets his own hands wander, sliding down to make their way over the lines of Steve’s shoulders, then his chest where his nipples are pebbled against the thin fabric of his shirt, to the flat muscles of his stomach which jump under Bucky’s touch. He slips his hands under the hem of Steve’s shirt and begins the process climbing up in reverse. When Bucky’s thumbs reach back up to circle at his pecs teasingly, Steve’s hands make their way to Bucky’s ass, pulling him in impossibly closer as Steve rolls his hips and pants against Bucky’s ear. Steve flicks his tongue out to suck on Bucky’s earlobe and Bucky responds with a pinching roll of his fingers over Steve’s right nipple that gets him another of those low, desperate sounds from Steve’s throat like he’s been punched. 

“Steve,” Bucky manages, voice a little breathier than he’d like. “You still also wanna have sex, right?” He’s pretty sure that’s what _more_ meant in the context of initiating an immediate makeout with heavy petting, but he’d like to be positive before he lets himself get carried away. 

Steve huffs a laugh, hot against the shell of Bucky’s ear. “Whatever you want, Buck.” 

“Oh good,” Bucky says on a whooshing sigh of relief. He sets his teeth to worry at the very edge of Steve’s collar bone peeking out of his t-shirt collar for a moment. “You want to fuck me?” 

Steve’s body at least reacts favorably to the question, and he takes in a sharp, short breath. 

“Yeah,” he says, and slides up one large palm again to rest along the side of Bucky’s neck, his thumb tilting Bucky’s chin back so he can kiss him deep and breathless. “Unless you like it better the other way?” 

Bucky considers the question through his haze of arousal and—shit did Steve just offer—? He bites at the juncture of Steve’s neck and shoulder, fingertips digging into the small of Steve’s back to press him closer, and for a moment he imagines the arch of Steve’s back, imagines pushing into him. But he shakes his head. “Uh-uh, I want you, if you’re up for it.” 

When he’d fantasized about this (and tried really hard to stop himself fantasizing about this) it was about what kinda arch Steve might put in _his_ back. He hasn’t been well and decently fucked in a good long while. 

“Okay,” Steve whispers, running his nose through Bucky’s hair. “It’s um—just so you know it’s been a while. Since I was with someone last.” 

“We jacked each other off in a field yesterday,” Bucky’s mouth blurts before his brain really catches up. 

Steve laughs, but pulls back to peer into Bucky’s face, hand anchoring him at the back of Bucky’s neck. There’s a bit of a sad twist to the corner of his smile. “It’s not the same.” 

Bucky senses the trepidation behind the sentence, and so he fights down the giddy, exultant voice that’s currently screeching through his head about taking off the clothes of the most beautiful man he’s ever laid eyes on and instead tries to pay attention to what Steve is actually saying. Bucky lifts his hands to cup Steve’s face, and looks back at him seriously. 

“I know,” he says. “So let’s take it slow, huh?” It’s a suggestion for himself as much as it is for Steve. 

The anxious look of Steve’s forehead abates a little, but not all the way. “I’m saying I uh—I dunno, slow may be too much to ask. I’m trying to lower your expectations here.” 

Bucky smiles, heart tripping a little over Steve’s concern. He tips up on the balls of his feet and kisses him softly, first one cheek, then the other. “So we’ll go slowly to the fast part.” He drops another kiss on Steve’s nose. “No expectations. I just wanna be as close to you as you’ll let me.” He returns to Steve’s mouth, kissing him gently. 

Steve sighs, letting himself slump forward into the kiss, into Bucky’s arms, their bodies melting together. 

Bucky’s fingers fumble to find the hem of Steve’s shirt, tugging it up until Steve gets the hint and strips it off, reaching for Bucky’s at once to do the same. Steve’s skin is hot and flushed as they press together again, chest to chest, and Bucky ducks his head to trail kisses across his collar bones. His skin is clean, but there’s a faint trace of salt there already too as Bucky dips his tongue into the hollow of his throat. Steve’s hands trace the lines of Bucky’s back as he tilts his chin to find Steve’s mouth again. Steve kisses him deep, and Bucky lets him control it, sinking into the strong circle of his arms. Then Steve’s hands slip lower, sliding under the waistband of Bucky’s sweats to cup his ass, and he breaks away with a pleased gasp. 

“God I want you,” Bucky murmurs against Steve’s ear, feeling how the shadowy stubble on his jaw scrapes against the smooth sharp line of Steve’s. 

Steve makes a low noise in his throat, and before Bucky can track the motion he spins them so that it’s Bucky’s back pressed hard against the door, trapped by the solid wall of Steve’s massive shoulders as Steve kneads his palms against Bucky’s skin. 

Steve lets his lips trail lower, leaving a line of hot, branding kisses down the column of Bucky’s throat. He ducks lower still, placing a kiss with an edge of teeth in the center of his sternum. Bucky moans when he sees the direction of Steve’s movement, continuing downward until he sinks to his knees, the heels of his hands pinning Bucky’s hipbones in place against the door. Steve nuzzles against the crease of Bucky’s hip through his sweats, lips dragging across the grey fabric. 

He looks up at Bucky from beneath his ridiculous, long lashes, eyes hazy with desire and mouth flushed from kissing. 

“I wanted to do this so badly yesterday,” he says, a hoarse whisper. 

Bucky swallows hard. “You should always do what you want to do, Steve,” he says, aiming for teasing but unable to keep the strain out of his voice so that it instead verges much closer on desperate. 

Steve’s mouth curls in a lazy smile, and he drops his eyes again as he hooks his fingers in the waistband of Bucky’s pants, easing them down over his thighs and freeing his erection. 

Steve glances up and says, “I haven’t done this in a while either. Tell me if I get it wrong.” 

Bucky opens his mouth to tell Steve he’s already crushing it, as his words ghost over Bucky’s heated skin. But then Steve wraps a hand around him, and takes him into his mouth—just a little at first, flicking his tongue out to taste him. Bucky loses the thread and any words that had been forming come out as a groan, and he commands his knees to keep doing their job to hold him upright, slumping fully against the door. 

Steve’s lips close around his cock and he works tentatively lower, and while he may say it’s because he’s out of practice the result is maddeningly good, and Bucky finds himself panting heavily as Steve edges the sensations higher and higher with his lips and tongue and hand. Bucky’s hands flutter uselessly for a moment, before clutching one to Steve’s strong shoulder, and the other sliding to the back of Steve’s neck. He can feel the corded muscle working there as Steve bobs his head experimentally, and Bucky lets out a sharp sigh of pleasure. 

Steve responds to the sound by working himself down further still, and Bucky’s hand moves of its own accord to tangle in Steve’s hair as heat pools in his gut—not directing him, but anchoring himself with a handful of the silky, shower-damp strands. It must work for Steve though because he moans around Bucky’s cock and sucks hard, sending sparks flaring across Bucky’s vision. The sight of Steve’s eyes closed in concentration and his mouth full of Bucky’s dick is too much, Bucky has to shut his own eyes and let his head fall back with a thunk against the door, fingers massaging idly at the back of Steve’s skull. 

Steve releases his grip on Bucky’s hipbone, moving his hand around to palm Bucky’s ass. Then his hand dips lower, trembling fingers slipping into the cleft of his ass, and Bucky’s eyes fly open with a gasp. It’s too much, suddenly, knowing he’s already so turned on he could absolutely come just like this and soon if Steve keeps it up—but remembering everywhere else he wants Steve to be before he finishes. 

He tugs on Steve’s hair more intentionally, and pants out “Wait—Steve don’t—I’m gonna—” 

Steve pulls off with a small, slick sound, and looks up at him dazed, mouth parted and red. 

“Do you want to, like this?” Steve asks, voice ragged. 

Bucky shakes his head. “No—not yet—not if you still want—” 

Steve nods his head a little frantically in agreement, clambering up from his knees at once so that they’re face to face again. Bucky breathes deeply, trying to pull himself back a little. Steve’s hands find both of his, linking their fingers together loosely at their sides, and he leans in and brushes a soft, barely there kiss across Bucky’s lips. 

“Just tell me how to make you feel good,” he whispers into Bucky’s mouth. 

There’s only one answer to that. “Bed,” Bucky rasps. “I have stuff in my toiletry kit.” 

Steve nods again, fervently, and reaches down to tug Bucky’s sweats back up his hips. Instead of stepping away into the room, he hooks his hands under Bucky’s thighs, and Bucky goes lightheaded at how effortlessly Steve then lifts him, his legs wrapping around Steve’s waist as Steve turns and carries him toward the bed. 

Steve dumps Bucky onto the smooth bedspread, and he scoots backwards til his back hits the pillows as Steve rifles through his bag. 

“Pants,” Bucky says, as Steve turns back to toss a handful of things onto the bed beside him. Bucky kicks his own sweats down his legs, getting tangled for a moment around his ankles before he can nudge them off onto the floor. Steve smiles, color high on his cheeks as he shucks his too. He’s hard and flushed just from sucking Bucky off, and Bucky stares for a moment, captivated by every single perfect line of his body—not a single curve or hard edge of it wasted or out of place, from the round swell of his shoulders to the hard line of his cock. But Steve hovers, almost self-consciously, at the foot of the bed, eyes cast down while Bucky takes him in. 

“Come’ere” Bucky urges, low, waving Steve forward. 

Steve sighs deeply, and crawls up onto the bed, lowering himself gently at Bucky’s side. He reaches up with shaky fingers, and tucks a stray lock of Bucky’s hair behind his ear, eyes searching Bucky’s face almost wonderingly. 

Bucky can’t really handle Steve looking at him like that, it makes his heart turn over and over tying itself in knots in his chest. He huffs and tugs on Steve’s waist until Steve rolls on top of him, pinning Bucky’s body to the mattress with his, skin hot and smooth as they press together from chest to toe, one of Steve’s thighs sliding between his. 

Bucky lets out a shuddering breath, and Steve’s head drops to his shoulder as his chest heaves too, both of them seeming to adjust to the new and thrilling feeling of lying naked in each other’s arms. 

Bucky noses through the floppy hair at Steve’s temple, smelling faintly of shampoo but damp now with sweat too. It’s a heady combination of clean soap and sex and pure _Steve_. He runs his hands down Steve’s broad back, fingertips following the lines of muscle down the crease of his spine and over the swell of Steve’s frankly criminally sculpted ass, urging Steve to rut against his hip. 

Steve does, with a groan of relief at the friction, and lifts his head to kiss Bucky again. It’s sloppier now, his kissing, and Bucky can taste the arousal on his tongue. It goes straight to his belly, fiery liquid settling there as he arches for more. 

“Steve,” he breathes after a few moments, “come on.” 

“What do you want me to do?” Steve asks in his ear, hand drifting to Bucky’s flank. 

“You remember the basics?” Bucky asks, suddenly feeling strangely shy. He’s not sure he can handle talking Steve through the whole thing, verbalizing everything he wants Steve to do to him. He’s not opposed to some dirty talk, but this feels more intimate, somehow. More vulnerable than he was prepared for, which seems funny considering the circumstances, but still. 

Steve takes the hint. “Yeah,” he says, and Bucky can hear the slight smile in his voice as he pushes himself up, reaching over for the lube and condoms he’d dumped beside him. 

“Do that,” Bucky says. Steve hoists himself up on his elbows, and Bucky takes the opportunity of a small amount of space to suck in some much needed, steadying air into his lungs. He also tugs one of the free pillows over and shoves it unceremoniously under his hips. 

Steve settles himself back over Bucky, propped up on one massive arm slightly to one side. His hand drifts lower, and Bucky takes in a sharp breath in anticipation. 

“Buck,” Steve says, low and serious. “Tell me if I do anything wrong okay?” 

Bucky chews on his lower lip, overwhelmed for a moment by the raw, open expression on Steve’s face, haloed by the warm glow of the lamps. His bangs are hanging over his forehead, and he looks mussed and perfect like this, the slope of his shoulders encircling Bucky and blocking out everything else in the room, everything but Steve. 

“Kiss me,” Bucky says, by way of an answer. Steve leans forward and obeys. 

Bucky closes his eyes and focuses on Steve kissing him. On Steve’s tongue slipping gently along his lower lip, and Steve’s nose pressed against his. 

He takes in a quick breath when Steve’s slick fingertip presses against his entrance, circling first before anything else, and reaches up to anchor himself with his arms around Steve’s shoulders as he tries to relax into it. 

Steve pushes into him with the tip of his finger, true to his word to move slowly. And soon Bucky doesn’t have to think so hard about relaxing as he just _does_, letting Steve slide deeper into him. He doesn’t speed up at all as the movement becomes easier, letting Bucky fully savor the moments between the invasive sensation of Steve breaching him turning to a pleasant one of his body opening up for Steve’s. Steve keeps kissing him until it seems that _he_ has to catch his breath a little, resting his head on Bucky’s shoulder as his single finger moves in and out of him, working him open. 

He pulls his hand back momentarily, and when he returns it’s with two fingers, and this time it doesn’t take long before he finds the right spot, the one that makes Bucky let out a hissing breath and arch against him. He does it again, and again, and Bucky moans and lets his head drop back onto the pillow with a fractured laugh as his thighs start to tremble with it. 

“You’re pretty good at this, Rogers,” he says. 

Steve lifts his head, and he’s _smirking_, the asshole, one corner of his mouth quirked up even though his eyes are hazy. “That’s what the fellas used to say.” 

Bucky laughs again, a low rumble in his chest. “When was the last time you did this?” 

Steve cocks his head and twists his fingers mercilessly, making Bucky gasp again. “Guess it must’ve been about 1941.” 

“Must be like—like riding a bike I guess,” Bucky chokes out, determined not to be rendered incoherent while Steve teases him. 

“Uh huh,” is all Steve says, curving his fingers to slide them out and in again, purposefully. 

Bucky can’t think of anything to say to that, hanging onto Steve’s shoulders for dear life. But it was probably the end of the conversation anyway. 

“How do you feel?” Steve whispers after another few moments or minutes have drifted around them, and Bucky is feeling heavy and limbless with it. 

“Good,” Bucky manages, “I’m—good.” 

Steve draws back, and Bucky can hear the small sound of the condom wrapper ripping open as Steve lifts himself up on his knees. The noise sends a new spark down his spine, filling him again with a sense of urgency—he’s _ready_ for this. He nods encouragingly, and lets his hands wander up to finger the ridiculous, individual lines between Steve’s abdominal muscles as Steve sits back on his heels. Steve squeezes his eyes shut tight as Bucky’s fingers drift lower, pressing his thumb into the crease of Steve’s hip as he rolls the condom onto himself, his mouth dropping open. 

He opens them again as he lowers himself, hand ghosting down Bucky’s ribs to anchor himself at Bucky’s hip. “You want it like this?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky says, spreading his legs wider for Steve to settle between them. “Just like this.” 

Steve props his elbow beside Bucky’s head, and with the other lines himself up to push inside of him. 

They both groan as Steve bottoms out, stilling for a moment. It’s hot and heady and _close_ with Steve inside of him, and Bucky feels any distance he had from the situation, from Steve, falling away as he presses in. It’s the closeness of it that makes him breathless for a moment, holding Steve in place with his hands at the small of his back. 

“It’s—good,” Bucky pants out after a few seconds of adjustment. 

“_You_ are,” Steve says. For some unaccountable reason the response strikes Bucky as very funny, and he feels a laugh, happy and unbidden rising in his throat. 

Steve looks down at his face with a bemused smile, and brushes Bucky’s hair back from his sweaty forehead as Bucky laughs helplessly. It’s just _Steve_, and he’s so good and sincere and _good_ and Bucky can’t believe he’s naked on top of him right now, is all. 

“You are too,” Bucky says, still laughing. And Steve huffs a laugh, and drops down to kiss him, rocking his hips out and forward into him, just a small movement at first. 

By the time he’s worked up to a full rhythm Bucky isn’t laughing any more, reduced to a wordless mess of panting and moaning, arching his hips up to meet Steve’s thrusts. 

Heat ignites in his blood again, and this time it’s not just in his gut, but in his chest, his cheeks, his toes. He hitches one of his knees up around Steve’s waist, heel digging into him to pull him deeper, and Steve moans, speeding up. 

It’s not quite the right angle to be hitting his prostate anymore, but it doesn’t matter. Being able to watch Steve’s face as he starts to shudder above him, as his movements become less measured and more fevered, it’s enough. Bucky’s cock jumps against Steve’s stomach, and Steve lets out a low groan. 

“I’m gonna—” Steve says, dropping his head again to whisper in his ear. 

“Me too, _fuck_” Bucky rasps back, feeling goosebumps rising on his arms and up his neck as he gets close. “Don’t wait for me.” 

It’s an unnecessary permission, as Steve grinds hard and deep into him, and their mouths crash together one more time. Steve reaches down for Bucky’s cock, jerking him without finesse, and Bucky’s hands move to cling to the back of Steve’s neck holding him there as he arches his hips up once more to meet him before he tumbles over the edge of his orgasm into utter freefall. 

All of his muscles tighten up with his climax, and Steve makes a high, helpless sound before he locks up rigid against Bucky’s body and follows him through it, continuing to rock just a little as he chases the end of his own. 

Then Steve collapses against him, forcing the air out of Bucky’s body with a whoosh as all his weight lands squarely on his chest. Bucky lets out a small _oof_, though the feeling of Steve’s body crushing him isn’t an unpleasant one. 

“Sorry,” Steve mumbles, rolling off to the side leaving Bucky feeling loose and untethered. 

They lay for a moment, side by side and staring at the ceiling, just catching their breath. 

“That was…” Bucky finds himself saying, not sure how the sentence ends as his brain is momentarily disconnected from his mouth. “Was that good for you?” 

“Yeah.” Steve lets out something between a laugh and a sigh on a heavy exhale. “It really was. You?” 

“Mmhmm.” Bucky lets his eyes shut, basking in the boneless feeling of his afterglow. 

Beside him, Steve shifts away, and Bucky listens to him padding softly to the bathroom to dispose of the condom and to the brief sound of the tap before he returns. The mattress dips next to him as Steve flops back down on his stomach, shoulder pressed to Bucky’s. 

“Thanks. For that,” Steve says. 

Bucky cracks one eye with great effort, rolling his head to look over at Steve’s face on the pillow next to him. He snorts. “Yeah it was a big favor on my part, as you can tell from my current state.” 

Steve laughs low in his throat, and scoots closer to drop a gentle kiss on Bucky’s bare shoulder. He tilts his head and places another on the underside of Bucky’s jaw, and Bucky leans into it. The last time he had sex that involved any sort of cuddling after is further back than he can reliably remember. The fact that he and Steve are both staying in this room tonight, in this bed even, makes him feel warm and comfortable in a way he chooses not to examine closely just now. 

“I really—” Steve says, and something about his voice makes Bucky open both eyes this time to peer over at him. Steve ducks his head away from Bucky’s gaze, brushing his nose over the point of Bucky’s shoulder rather than look at him. “I’ve gotten really fond of you, Bucky. You know that, right?” 

“Oh,” Bucky says, mouth dropping open in surprise. His chest swells, and he does his best to tamp down and get a handle on it. But it’s so earnest—so old-fashioned and so Steve to say it that way, like nobody else would. Bucky doesn’t know if there’s anybody else in the world really who is _fond_ of him. He swallows hard before speaking, unsure which of the unsaid things might bubble up in his throat if he lets it. He reaches out to brush Steve’s bangs back off of his forehead, and lets his hand stay there, twined in Steve’s hair cupping the back of his head. “I’m pretty…fond of you too.” 

“Oh,” Steve echoes him, surprised into looking up and meeting Bucky’s eyes with his wide, dark blue ones, cheeks pink again. “I—thanks.” 

Bucky can’t keep looking at the expression on Steve’s face, it’s too much like staring at the sun or straight into a lightning strike happening beside you. So he rolls onto his side and pulls at Steve, gathering him into his arms. Steve hunches his shoulders obligingly and buries his face in Bucky’s neck with a sigh, making himself small enough to rest there against his chest. Bucky tucks his chin on the top of Steve’s golden head with a sigh of his own. 

They stay that way for more heartbeats than Bucky cares to count, too comfortable and contented to bother about the time passing them. 

At least, until Steve’s stomach gives an almighty, almost cartoonish growl, startling a laugh out of Bucky as he opens his eyes. Steve looks up at him, sheepish and apologetic. 

“What do you say,” Bucky starts, and then clears his throat, finding his voice is husky. He tries again. “What do you say we just put back on our sweats and get decent enough to have something delivered here?” It had seemed like such a dangerous proposition earlier, _ordering in_ to their shared bedroom, when he’d accidentally suggested it before. Now it feels just right. He squeezes Steve’s shoulder. “I’m hungry too. You took it out of me.” 

Steve smiles wryly, and disentangles himself from Bucky’s arms to collect their discarded clothing from where it’s scattered around the bed. He hesitates for a moment, holding his own t-shirt, before tossing it to Bucky. 

“You should wear that one. I’ll get another—dunno where yours ended up.” 

Bucky is fairly certain his shirt is lying somewhere on the floor by the door still, and yet when he opens his mouth to tell Steve as much he just…doesn’t. He pulls Steve’s t-shirt over his head instead, and lets the scent envelop him. He’s just lazy, he tells himself. And Steve offered. 

He shuffles into his pants as Steve does the same, and rearranges the mess of pillows against the headboard so that he can sit up against them, pulling the info binder and remote control over onto his lap. 

“What are you in the mood for?” He asks, flipping to the pages of menus. 

“Pizza,” Steve answers without hesitation. 

Bucky grins, and swipes up his phone from the beside table. “Done. You a mushroom guy?” 

“Absolutely,” Steve says with a smile. 

“Oh good, that means you can still sleep here tonight,” Bucky teases him, feeling buoyant. 

Steve makes a face at him, and Bucky laughs brightly. 

“Water?” Steve asks as Bucky locates the number. 

Bucky nods, “Please.” 

It only takes a minute for Bucky to place the order, though the forty minute wait estimate nearly slays him on the spot. It also only takes a minute for Steve to return with two glasses of water, though they are sans ice which seems to have melted in the intervening time. Bucky waves the phone at him. 

“It’ll be here in two to three business eons,” he says, and Steve quirks an eyebrow. “Forty minutes. Do you want to watch a movie or something? Otherwise I’m going to have a hard time staying awake for it, if I’m honest.” 

“Movie sounds good,” Steve says. And to Bucky’s surprise, Steve sits on the bed and scoots in close to him. He hands one of the glasses of water to Bucky, and drapes the now free arm around his shoulder, leaning into him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Bucky is still for a minute, and then lets himself mold against Steve’s warm side, taking a sip of his water and suppressing what he’s pretty sure would have been a very stupid looking smile. 

After another moment, he tilts his head to rest on Steve’s shoulder, and flicks the tv on with the remote. 

“I know better than to tell you that any of this will change your life or be the key that unlocks the future,” he says as he flips to the guide channel, and he can feel Steve’s laugh in his chest. “But let me know if anything looks good.” 

“Okay,” Steve agrees, softly, resting his cheek on Bucky’s hair. 

If it seems like Steve doesn’t give their movie choices 100% of his undivided attention, Bucky doesn’t call him on it. It doesn’t take all of his attention either to make an executive decision when he sees that _You’ve Got Mail_ has just started somewhere—and if he devotes the rest of that attention to the solid bulk of Steve’s arm across his back, or the hand that begins to play absently with the long strands of his hair in the meanwhile...

Well, _You’ve Got Mail_ is always starting somewhere, and he’s seen it before.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I've got chills, they're multiplying_   
_And I'm losing control_   
_Cuz the power that you're supplying_   
_It's electrifying_   
_You're the one that I want_
> 
> (Just a reminder about the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/303NgOJllxCudb1rJyPEV2?si=l7LdGqmpRwGdACGsZGfocw), which if you don't listen to anything else PLEASE check out the very confusingly sexy cover of You're the One I Want that inspired today's chapter title because it's so much.)


	5. You Sit There in Your Heartache

Steve wakes up sprawled over the better part of the ridiculously large bed. He has a moment of almost concern when he realizes that the pillow beside him is empty before it’s followed quickly by the second realization that while Bucky’s space no longer contains Bucky, the sheets are still warm from his body, indicating that he was still in it very recently. 

Steve rolls back onto what could reasonably be termed his half of the mattress, and wonders for the second morning in a row whether he’d possibly spent the night more in Bucky’s space than his own. But it’s something of a revelation that he doesn’t have to worry about it having been unwelcome this time. 

He listens for sounds of Bucky, thinking maybe him rising to use the bathroom was what had pulled Steve awake. But there’s no noise coming from it, and when he tilts his head up he sees that the door isn’t latched, and the light is off inside of it. So Bucky must have strayed a little further than that. 

On the bedside table, the alarm on Steve’s cell phone goes off. He’d set it wanting to get up before Bucky so that he could get him coffee again before he got out of bed. 

For the first time in many months, since those early days when he’d come out of the ice, the electronic, unreal sound of it strikes him as discordant and jarring. Back then, the sounds of modernity had been a constant sort of wake up call, even when he was wide awake walking down the sidewalk—a continual alarm haranguing him to wake himself to the new day, the new century, this new life. Later after New York, when Tony had given them all special Stark phones, Tony had set all of Steve’s ringtones and things to sound like an old-fashioned telephone. But it doesn’t, really. It’s a hollow facsimile of what the past sounded like. 

It hasn’t startled him in a while, he thinks, rolling over to shut it off, his plans averted by Bucky’s absence. 

He thinks that the reason for it today is something to do with the dreamlike bubble he and Bucky had made for each other last night. There had been a moment, an indefinable one, where everything had fallen away except the two of them. As Steve had felt that shift when Bucky’s body gave in to his fingers, making space for him, and Bucky’s mouth was soft and pliant under his. Suddenly there had been nothing but them, and the lines even making them two bodies rather than one had blurred for a moment, indistinct on a shared breath. And in that moment all of the distance of time and distinctions of experience between them had gone, leaving only the pleasure of the two of them choosing one another. 

It had overwhelmed him, briefly. He’d had to drop his head to bury his face in Bucky’s shoulder, further shutting out anything but the smell and feel of Bucky’s skin on his. They could have been anyone, just two people with the same end in mind. Or rather, they could have been Steve and Bucky, but anywhere, any time, the generic hotel bed and soft lamplight erasing all the irrelevant details of date and place. 

And it had remained, that feeling like the rest of the world and everything that has kept Steve apart from it had evaporated. 

So the alarm startles him, drawing him back, and he regrets the loss in a vague, aching sort of way. He wishes it could have lasted. But he feels guilty for wishing it, too, because there’s too much of the world pressing in on both of them for him to ignore it. And it wouldn’t do Bucky any good for Steve to pretend it isn’t there either, not when Bucky’s own looming future and decisions are so precarious. 

Steve lies quietly, curled a little in on himself, as if he can protect the inevitably receding ball of warmth in his chest from vanishing entirely in the light of day. His eyes fix on the face of his watch, lying on the beside table next to his phone. He watches the second hand tick around the circle of its face. If it were a real one, with real mechanical parts, he could probably hear the seconds ticking by with his heightened senses. But it’s like the old-timey ringtone on his phone—it may look like a real watch as the hand ticks steadily, but it’s just an imitation. There’s nothing to hear. 

The latch on the door snicks open, and Bucky slips back into the room quietly, his footsteps soft and tentative as not to wake Steve if he were still asleep. 

The look on Bucky’s face isn’t reassuring. Between that and the phone in his hand, which he tosses with a huff onto his open overnight bag, Steve can guess what happened. He’s coming back from another clandestine phone call with Blackstone, and judging from his expression it wasn’t a good one. He looks deeply troubled. 

Steve notes the exact moment Bucky sees himself being seen, as he turns his head and finds Steve’s eyes open and on him, and Steve’s heart catches in his chest. Bucky’s drawn look doesn’t vanish, but he attempts to smooth it out a fraction, smiling in a way that only manages to look sad. 

Steve props himself up on his elbow, wanting to say something but not sure what he can. He feels the chasm of reality opening up between them again, and he hates it. Despite himself, he makes a half-aborted gesture toward Bucky, reaching for him, maybe, before dropping his hand back to the bedspread. 

Bucky sees the motion anyway, and his face, to Steve’s surprise, floods with relief. 

“Morning,” Bucky says, quietly. And he kicks off his shoes, and crawls up onto the bed, straight into the circle of Steve’s arms, which had opened for him as soon as he’d moved toward him. 

Bucky curls his shoulders under Steve’s arm, and rests his cheek against Steve’s chest. 

“Morning,” Steve says back, relieved that the word doesn’t stick in his throat. He sighs, and rubs his hand down Bucky’s back. Bucky smells like coffee with a faint tang of cigarette smoke, which just increases Steve’s impressions about whatever happened on his phone call. From what Steve has seen, Bucky—mostly true to his word—has only ever smoked in the aftermath of a storm or when he was under great stress. 

“Did I wake you up?” Bucky asks, mumbling the question into Steve’s collar bone. 

“No,” Steve says. “I had my alarm set—was gonna get you coffee this morning, but you were already up.” 

“Oh,” Bucky says, and his voice is small. “That would’ve…would’ve been nice.” 

“Maybe tomorrow, huh?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, but his voice sounds practically ready to crack over the word. 

Steve lifts his hand tentatively, hovering a moment over Bucky’s hair. He sighs, and gives in to the desire to stroke his fingers through it. He thinks—hopes—that they’re past having to worry about what that kind of small, affectionate gesture might betray. He wouldn’t have been sure if it was allowed, even after last night. But Bucky had come to him unprompted. So maybe it’s okay. 

Bucky leans into the gesture, tilting his head into Steve’s hand and slumping over further into his embrace, tangling their legs together and squeezing tight around his waist, almost crushing himself into Steve. 

“What happened, Buck?” Steve asks after several quiet breaths, fingers still combing through the long strands of Bucky’s hair. 

Bucky makes a wordless, unhappy sound muffled by Steve’s t-shirt, and holds on tighter. 

Steve threads his fingers deeper in Bucky’s hair, and rolls them over so that Bucky’s back is flat on the bed, Steve looking down at him. He tips Bucky’s face up with the hand at the back of his skull so that Bucky has to look at him. His expression has gone tight again, and he worries at his bottom lip with his teeth. 

“What happened?” Steve asks again. 

Bucky closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them, blinking rapidly against a shine that wasn’t there a moment ago. 

“I called in,” he says, slowly, and his voice is rough. “I called in to Blackstone. He—they want me to come in now. Today. He doesn’t care the equipment isn’t at capacity yet. I talked him into—I convinced him I should follow this last front.” Bucky takes in a shaky breath and shakes his head. “He asked me again. About the town—the one the storm destroyed. Steve I—” he breaks off, his throat working hard as he blinks again. “I think you’re right. About what they’re making. Why they want all this data. They only care about—I think you were right.” He finished the sentence heavily, and closes his eyes again. “What am I going to do?” The last comes out as a whisper that nearly cracks Steve’s chest open. One of the tears Bucky had been fighting escapes and slides free from under his closed lashes, trailing down his cheek into his hair. 

“Bucky,” Steve says, gently. He knows that it isn’t easy for Bucky to admit, even to himself but especially to Steve, that things have gone askew. So he talks quietly, and resists the urge to jump to telling him that he’s right and they have to do something about it. He doesn’t want to scare Bucky back into denial, or make him feel like Steve is judging him on the realization. So instead of saying anything right this moment, he leans in and brushes his lips across Bucky’s damp cheek, first one, then the other. 

“It’s going to be okay. We’ll figure this out,” he says. 

Bucky opens his eyes, his forehead furrowing as if in pain as he meets Steve’s eyes. “Steve,” he says, pleading, “will you kiss me? Please?” 

Steve’s heart clenches at the request, that Bucky is still perhaps as uncertain of this as he is—but that he wants it, too. And he dips his head to press his mouth against Bucky’s. 

Bucky brings his hands up to fist in the front of Steve’s shirt, twisting the fabric and pulling Steve in closer. And his kisses are almost desperate as he tries to quicken them, surging up against Steve’s lips and urging him to kiss him harder, rougher. Instead, Steve tightens his grip in Bucky’s hair, holding him still, and slows it down. He brushes his lips against Bucky’s and then away before coming back again, not letting Bucky change the pace at all until finally Bucky gives in to just being kissed. His hands relax their frantic grip, and the tension of his body bleeds away until the hard lines of it melt again into soft ones under Steve’s. 

Steve kisses him one more time, as deeply and slowly as he knows how, one arm pinned under Bucky’s waist, holding him, and the other cupping his face. Then he pulls back, and Bucky opens his eyes, his mouth parted, and stares up at him. 

“Are you ready for me to help, if I can?” Steve asks him. 

Bucky again worries at his full bottom lip, chewing on it anxiously, and it just makes it redder even than the kisses had. Steve slides his hand down Bucky’s sharp jaw, and lets his thumb press into the dip in his chin—something he’s wanted to do several times before now, and he revels that he can. 

“How?” Bucky asks, huskily. 

Steve inclines his head, thinking. “I think…it might be useful to know what you’re—what we’re dealing with. What we’re _really_ dealing with.” He pauses. “I have…a friend. Who might be able to help.” 

“Someone from—” Bucky clears his throat, “from New York?” 

Steve understands what he’s asking—if it’s someone from his hero life, the part of him they haven’t talked about, not really. He nods. 

“Yeah, someone in New York.” 

Bucky sniffs, eyebrows creasing again, and lets out a shuddering breath. “Okay.” He hesitates, and then adds, quickly, “Not just yet though, okay? Let me—let me think about this a little. Today. I convinced them to let me follow one last storm. So that I can have today. That we can.” 

Steve smiles, but the corners of it feel sad, even to him. “Yeah Buck, okay. Just tell me when, and I’ll do it. We’ll figure this out.” 

“Okay,” Bucky says again. But he doesn’t sound convinced, and Steve doesn’t really think there’s anything he can do about that right now. 

“Do we need to head out?” He asks. 

“Yeah,” Bucky says. Then he shakes his head, and hunches back into Steve with a deep breath. “No. In a few minutes.” 

Steve just gathers him up again in his arms and doesn’t say anything. It seems like what Bucky needs most at the moment isn’t words anyway. 

It’s a strange feeling, holding someone and still wanting them so badly that it’s almost painful. Steve wishes he could just enjoy the moment. But having Bucky like this just for a few minutes seems only to remind him how short those minutes are. And how he doesn’t _have_ him. Not really. Not outside these minutes in this hotel. 

Steve stops himself short of wondering what it means that he _does_ want him, into tomorrow and beyond, when he isn’t sure at all that he can. 

So he simply holds Bucky close for as long as Bucky lets him, until he starts to stir again with a reluctant sound in his throat. 

“We should probably go,” he says, sitting up and freeing himself of Steve’s hold. 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. 

Bucky scoots to the far edge of the bed, and Steve throws off the sheet, moving toward his bag so that he can pull on real clothes. 

“What are we headed for today?” Steve asks over his shoulder as he begins tying up his boots. 

Bucky shrugs, not looking nearly as excited as he has any other time he’s given Steve the weather forecast. “Looks like it could be tornado activity. Won’t be crazy—too far west for the really good ones. But it might be something at least. I wanted you to see a tornado before—” he cuts himself off, turning his face away. 

Steve swallows around the unhappy lump in his throat. “Sounds great.” 

Bucky stands, slinging his pack over his shoulder, and tosses the keys on the bed beside Steve. “I’ll turn in the hotel keys and check out. Meet you in the truck.” 

He exits quickly, leaving Steve to rush hastily through brushing his teeth and shoving his things back into his bag alone. 

Steve steps out of the room into a sultry, restless spring day. It’s warm and sticky already, but darkened by low, heavy rainclouds casting a dim haze over everything. A capricious sort of breeze darts and pulses around him too, one minute whipping leaf detritus up around his feet, and the next going utterly still and quiet. 

He leans on the truck, but doesn’t have to wait long for Bucky to join him from across the parking lot. Steve tosses the keys back to him over the hood. 

They gas up at the edge of town, Steve staying put in the passenger seat while Bucky gets out. He watches Bucky in the side mirror, Bucky’s gaze fixed on the handle of the pump with a thoughtful, intense expression. When it clicks off, he nods to himself in some kind of decision, returning it to the pump station. Instead of returning to the driver’s seat he walks to Steve’s door and taps on the window, so Steve opens it. 

“You want to drive this next bit?” Bucky asks. 

“Oh,” Steve says, surprised. “Yeah! I mean, if you’re sure?” 

Bucky gives an odd, sharp laugh at that. “Yeah I’m sure. I’m not supposed to, with the equipment.” He says, and Steve catches his meaning. Bucky shrugs, looking defiant. “But fuck it, right? Might as well.” 

Steve considers refusing, but then rethinks it. He can tell that whatever decision Bucky has made to violate his contract in this small way is more significant to him than just the offer to take a shift behind the wheel. Steve climbs out of the seat, and Bucky hops into it, shutting the door with more force than is required, giving the noise of it slamming a sort of finality. 

Steve slides into the driver side, eyes roving quickly over the controls to assure himself that he’s got it handled. Bucky smiles a little at his caution as he adjusts the seat and mirrors, but quietly and without comment. 

And Steve warms to driving as soon as they pull onto the highway, the slight uptick in his nerves settling as he gets the feel of the accelerator and how it’s connected to the thrum of the engine under his feet. 

He grins over at Bucky as soon as he’s comfortable taking his eyes off the road for the moment that a shared glance takes. Bucky had been watching him, and a slow smile spreads over his features in reply. 

“You’d have told me if you didn’t know how to drive, right?” Bucky asks, wryly. 

Steve grins wider, the edges of it going a little wicked. “Probably.” 

Bucky barks a laugh at that, and Steve savors the sound. “I’m hoping that means you do actually know.” 

“Yes, Bucky, I know how to drive.” He presses harder on the gas pedal, watching the speedometer edge upward in satisfaction. The road is flat and straight and mostly empty, and it calls for speed, which Steve is happy to provide. 

“I’m just saying,” Bucky continues, though his tone is laughing, “you grew up in New York. Most people I knew growing up in New York couldn’t drive for shit, if they ever tried at all.” 

Steve chuckles. “It’s true, I didn’t learn in New York. Nobody would’ve let me behind the wheel of their car when I was a kid, ’specially since I was colorblind. Kind of an issue with the red light/green light thing.” 

Bucky snorts, “See you say that, but to me it sounds like you would’ve tried anyway if someone was dumb enough to let you.” 

“Of course,” Steve says. 

Bucky laughs again and settles down into his seat, putting one boot up against the dash to lounge more effectively. “So when _did_ you learn? Army jeeps? Or after you woke up?” He pokes Steve in the side, playfully. “You have your learner’s permit on you, right? I don’t want to get a ticket for being an accomplice to an unlicensed driver.” 

“I’m Captain America, Bucky, you really think a lot of cops check my driver’s license after they realize that?” 

“_You_ are not inspiring me to confidence in the legality of that answer _Captain America_.” 

Steve smiles over at him again, and drops one of his hand from the wheel, draping his other wrist comfortably over the top of it. 

“_Yes_, I _am_ in fact a licensed driver. Have been since…gosh I don’t know, 1943 I guess.” 

“So?” Bucky prods again, “who taught you? This thing isn’t exactly a tank if that’s what you learned on.” 

“Mmm,” Steve hums, noncommittally, enjoying teasing Bucky with the mystery for a minute. Then he relents. “I learned how to drive a car from Margie Williams from O-hi-o. She was a USO dancer, and she was horrified in a proper midwestern kind of way that I’d never learned how to drive one. So one of our nights off she talked the band leader into letting her borrow his 1937 Hudson Terraplane. Still don’t know how she did it—that thing was like his kid, which is why he insisted on driving it across the country behind the tourbus instead of riding it with the rest of us. But she was real pretty, so maybe it wasn’t such a stretch after all. Redhead.” 

Bucky snorts. “Was she a good teacher?” 

“She sure was. Had me flying that thing around a bunch of Nebraska backroads before I knew what hit me.” 

“Mmmhmmm,” Bucky says, very dryly. “What else did Margie teach you?” 

Steve smirks. “Let’s see—showed me how to darn spots in my costume tights when they wore thin—these thighs aren’t easy on silk. And how to filter coffee through a handkerchief when the motels we stayed at were too cheap to have a drip pot. How to fend off a fan at the stage door who was looking for more than an autograph.” Steve pauses, thinking of Margie’s gleaming victory roll curls and bright, sardonic eyes. 

“She was a hell of a girl.” And he adds, still sensing Bucky’s dubious expression, “she fell in love with an airman on leave in California. He waited to take her out after our show three nights in a row in Los Angeles, and the fourth night she handed in her notice and married him. Our manager was furious. But we were headed to Europe next, and the rest of us were happy for her. You’ve never seen a party like we had that night at this jazz club—it’s a good thing I can’t get drunk because I had to personally make sure at least four of the other girls made it home. All that practice carrying them around in the show really paid off I can tell you.” 

He glances over again, and Bucky is smiling down at his hands in his lap, softly. “Did you like it? Being with the USO?” 

“Nah, I hated it. Never felt like I was doing enough,” Steve says, easily. It’s an old frustration, one that time and plenty of fighting had cured him of a long time ago. “But I loved the girls.” 

“I bet you did,” Bucky jokes. 

Steve laughs, and then sobers. “Before that I’d never really had a real conversation with a woman that hadn’t scared me shitless. I couldn’t believe it when I got the gig that I’d have to spend all that time shut up on a bus with two dozen of the prettiest, mouthiest dames I’d ever met. But the second they figured out I was terrified of them—and that I wasn’t going to make a move on one if my life depended on it—they pretty much decided I was going to be their big, dumb kid brother. I didn’t stand a chance.” 

“None of them tried to uh—give you any other kind of lessons?” Bucky asks, curiously. “I’ve seen the old film reels Steve—I’d’ve given it a shot, at least.” 

Steve’s mouth twists. “No, they never did. Guess they all figured out I was pretty gone on Peggy Carter, before I ever showed up on a stage. And god help any woman who tried to get handsy with me off-stage—there was always Margie or Adele or Lita there to set ’em straight. There’s a lot I never would’ve handled without them keeping an eye out for me, those days.” 

“Including driving,” Bucky says. 

“Including driving,” Steve agrees. “And then I was grateful, when I turned into a real soldier, that I could handle a jeep or a supply truck without looking like an idiot. And then in Germany I _really_ learned how to drive—how to hotwire a car too, or steal gas from one.” 

“Why Steve Rogers,” Bucky teases, “here I was just a moment ago thinking you were a real gentleman to have gotten saddled with a jerk like me.” 

“Didn’t want you thinking I was too nice for you,” Steve says. 

“Yeah, well,” Bucky says with a sigh, looking out the window again. “We’ll see about that.” 

Steve feels Bucky’s mood lowering again, and bites at the inside of his cheek. He’d been doing so well taking Bucky’s mind off it all for a minute there. He switches his grip on the wheel, taking it with his left, and reaching blindly for Bucky’s with his right. Bucky sighs again, but lets Steve’s fingers find his, twining Steve’s hand in both of his, resting lightly on his leg. 

“Just make sure you point me in the right direction, navigator,” he says. 

“I will.” 

The dense cloud above them doesn’t thin at all as they chase the horizon over the next several hours. 

They stop for a quick lunch at a general store, and Bucky buys a few extra things to tuck in the back of the truck “just in case.” Steve doesn’t say anything, except to throw a handful more items into the pile. He isn’t sure where exactly they’re headed, but if Bucky intends for them to make a meal out of what they’re buying he wants not to be worried about being too cranky from not having enough to eat. 

They drive through several patchy showers of rain, none of the bursts lasting for more than a few minutes. And the dark storm bank ahead of them does seem to be massing more purposefully as they draw nearer and nearer to the heart of it. 

Eventually they come over the top of a long, gradual slope, looking down and out across a particularly bleak stretch of highway. The horizon is flat and grey ahead of them when it starts to look like it might be turning toward the event that Bucky has been looking for. He leans forward in his seat, all the insouciance of his posture vanishing into alert tension. 

“You want to trade spots?” Steve asks, not sure if Bucky intends for him to be the one at the wheel all the way into whatever mele might be ahead. 

Bucky shakes his head, “Not yet. Let’s see if it starts to funnel.” 

Steve keeps one eye on the road, and the rest of his attention on the swirling silver clouds. They’re hanging low, almost like you could reach out and grab a handful of one, their appearance is so solid. Along the ground, another surging swirl of mist chases its counterparts overhead. Above, the sky begins to look like it’s congealing at the center, circling in on itself. Steve’s heart starts to pound a little faster in anticipation, willing it to gather. 

For nearly a half an hour, it looks like it’s going to. 

Beside him, Bucky’s knuckles are white on the dashboard as he bends himself toward the spectacle, his lips moving silently. Steve wonders if he’s talking to the storm or himself. There’s a roll of thunder, nowhere near as powerful as what they’ve seen the past few days, and a few fingers of white lightning vein the clouds here and there. 

There’s a moment when the spiraling cauldron overhead finally takes on the telltale funnel shape, reaching down grasping fingers toward the ground, and Steve holds his breath. The fingers of white that have been dancing across the ground too, seem to slow, and reach upward like a hand. 

But then the wind, which has been whipping the ragged trees on either side of the road into a frenzy—drops. The mass of vapor on the horizon collapses, spreading back out into a still, hovering veil before sinking entirely into the earth.

By the time another fifteen minutes of driving has brought them within a few hundred yards of where it had begun to form, it’s clear that the wind and cloud is receding again into itself. A heavy, sporadic spatter of rain begins clattering across the windshield. 

Bucky punches the dashboard, hard. “_Fuck_, come _on_,” he spits at the sky, viciously. 

He clenches his bruised knuckles with his other hand, and flings himself back into his seat, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Is that—what’s happening?” Steve asks, cautiously. 

Bucky shakes his head in frustration, eyes closed. “That was it. If it was going to happen that was it.” He opens his eyes again and peers down at the map on his phone for a moment, seeming to confirm his suspicions before tossing it angrily behind his seat. “We’ll be heading up toward the mountains now. It’s not moving east anymore. We lost the wind, which means there’s nothing to pull it down. It means we’re done.” 

Steve can hear the taught disappointment in Bucky’s voice, and the resignation. 

“So we…keep heading this way through it?” Steve asks. “Should we—I mean there’s still lightning, will we want to stop somewhere in it for that?” 

Bucky shakes his head, glowering. “No. It’s already burning itself out. There’ll be nothing to stop for by the time we’d be in the right spot.” His makes a restless gesture. “It’s not the right kind, anyway.” 

“Oh. I’m—sorry, Buck.” 

The fight goes out of Bucky’s body, and he slumps into his seat. “Well. Stay on this road for now. Once we get through these clouds into New Mexico you should be able to see the mountain range ahead. We’ll head up into it.” 

“Okay,” Steve says. He doesn’t have anything more comforting to offer, and he can’t magic a tornado up where Nature has determined there isn’t going to be one. 

He keeps driving. Neither one of them say anything when they pass the faded but cheerful orange billboard proclaiming “Welcome to New Mexico—land of enchantment!” 

The clouds thin and disappear above them as they reach the far edge. Ahead Steve can see the jagged edge of mountains against clear sky, as they leave the flat, straight-arrow road through the plains and begin to wind toward a landscape that closes in around them. 

It’s late afternoon when Bucky directs Steve to turn onto a winding backroad, and they start ascending. It’s pretty country—at another time Steve might have thought it prettier than the broad unbroken emptiness they’re leaving behind. But right now the sloping ridges of pine trees, and the steady climb skyward just reminds him of everything they’re leaving behind—and what they’re headed toward. 

It’s all going to change, soon, along with the landscape. 

Steve keeps his eyes glued to the short bit of the road he can see, bending away between the mountains. 

*

They wind their way through the mountain until the sun sinks behind the crest of it, casting the trees and meadows and streams on either side of them into a pink, dusty glow. 

Bucky watches the features passing around them mutely, thinking that they seem to be driving much faster now. Of course they aren’t, Steve had slowed down to account for the curving road. But out on the plains it sometimes feels hard to note your progress, when nothing around you changes for miles and miles. And here he barely has time for a glimpse of a rocky creek, or the flash of a deer tail in between the trees before the sight is whisked away around yet another bend. 

Steve, either consumed in his own thoughts or just out of attentiveness to Bucky’s mood, allows him to sulk in silence. Bucky loses track of the time, his mind traveling out ahead of them, down the other side of the mountain and beyond to Santa Fe and what waits there. 

Steve sounds reluctant when he finally breaks the stillness, asking softly, “Hey Buck, it’s getting dark—how do I work the headlights?” 

Bucky stirs himself to answer, feeling like he’s been in some kind of stasis since the tornado-that-wasn’t had evaporated along with all his hopes for a delay. He sighs, leaning over to flick on the headlights for Steve, and tries to pay attention to where they are and what they need to do in the immediate future. 

“We could keep driving,” he says, and his voice sounds flat to his own ears. “Make Santa Fe in a couple of hours.” He pauses. “Or we could just call it. Camp out tonight. Finish the drive tomorrow.”

“Let’s camp,” Steve says, decisively, and Bucky feels a small increment of relief. “You tell me if you see a spot.” 

“Yeah, alright,” Bucky agrees. 

Eventually, they spot an overgrown dirt road leading off into the trees, and Steve slows, pulling the truck off onto it, the wheels crunching over the layer of fallen pine needles littering the ground. It’s probably a fire road. In a few weeks it might even be cleared for use, as the season grows warmer. But for now it’s unlikely anyone will come across them. Steve guides the truck up a few curves in the track, until they reach a rusted gate, locked still for the winter, and he parks on a flat patch of grass along the far edge of it, out of sight. 

There’s a meadow between the trees, not far off the track, and Bucky grabs the tent out of the back, making for the flat hollow. Somewhere further into the woods, but still fairly nearby, he can hear a creek babbling over its bed, fed by melting snow further up the peak. It’s crisp this high up, the spring day descending into a brisk nighttime that still carries echoes of winter. 

Steve moves behind him with the lantern already lit, setting it on a rock and quietly taking one of the tent poles from Bucky’s hand so that they can work in tandem to set up their little makeshift camp. 

“How about a fire?” Steve asks, quietly. 

Bucky looks around the green clearing, trying to determine if it’s safe for one. He shrugs. 

“Clear a spot, I’ll gather some rocks. It’s still pretty wet but better safe than sorry. There’s a bucket in the truck bed too, maybe get some water from the creek just in case.” 

Steve obeys, and without any more conversation about it they build a ring. Bucky mentally notes the best way to cover it over in the morning, so that they don’t leave a blight on the otherwise untouched space. 

It takes a little more time to find any tinder dry enough to light—most of what had fallen last year is damp and mossy after the spring melts and rain. But Steve vanishes into the woods and returns with some—just as much as they need to stay lit for the hour or two before they’ll retreat to their beds. Bucky lets him, and turns his attention to the food supplies, dragging out the bag of things they’d bought back in Oklahoma. 

They sit on the ground beside the little crackling blaze of the fire. Steve eats; Bucky doesn’t. He finds he hasn’t worked up much of an appetite—or that it fizzled out along with the storm. 

Bucky can feel Steve watching him anxiously, and he thinks of rousing himself to say something reassuring. But he can’t quite formulate anything that he could believe himself, or summon the energy to lie. 

The campfire descends into glowing coals, and neither of them move to feed it—though Steve had collected enough firewood to keep it going maybe another hour if they’d wanted. 

Bucky swallows a drink from his water bottle, throat suddenly dry. He blames the smoke from the dying fire, though it’s only a thin trail of it wafting away between the trees. His eyes are stinging too, and he blinks hard against it. With an irritated huff, he gets to his feet, moving away from the warm glow into chilly dimness of the forest. 

There’s a large, crooked pine tree leaning over the trail at the edge of their meadow. It dips toward the earth with branches that have been bent by snowfall, needles almost brushing the ground on one edge as it leans. Bucky looks straight up through the uneven branches, catching his first glimpse of a bright, nearly full moon rising between them. He runs his hand over the rough bark of a low branch. 

He isn’t surprised when he hears the light crunch of Steve’s boots approaching him, but he doesn’t turn either, still staring up between the pine needles toward the night sky. 

“I’ll have to call in in the morning,” he says. “Let Blackstone know I’ll be arriving.” 

“Okay,” Steve says, without any particular inflection for Bucky to guess what he’s thinking. 

“You should make your call soon. To your friend. I won’t have a lot of time once they call me in.” 

“Okay,” Steve agrees. 

“Stop saying _okay_ Steve,” Bucky snaps, half-turning toward him. 

Steve’s face is partially illuminated by moonlight, and his features look cast in marble in the blue glow. He doesn’t say anything for a minute, and Bucky already regrets it. Steve takes another step toward him, and pulls the hand hanging loose at Bucky’s side into his, chafing his fingers, which Bucky passively accepts. 

“You’re cold,” Steve says. “Let me get your jacket, or I can get the fire going again…” 

“I’m fine,” Bucky says, cutting him off. He is cold, his skinny jeans and flannel not doing much to protect him from the bite of a mountain night. But he also doesn’t care. It feels right, that his external temperature would match his internal one right now. 

“You aren’t,” Steve responds, stubbornly. “You’re not fine—and I wish you’d just talk to me. You’ve been gone—somewhere else—for hours. And you’re not fine.” 

Bucky feels the ice around his heart thaw—but not with anything like a comforting warmth. It’s his temper flaring, and it’s like plunging a frozen limb into warm water, sending painful sparks of heat through his frightened, frostbitten heart. He whirls to face Steve, pulling his hand back and crossing his arms over his chest defensively. 

“You’re right, I’m not fine. And I’m not going to be fine if—” he pauses, and Steve’s eyebrows draw together in a hurt frown, and he plunges recklessly on. “You think I don’t know what I’m getting into, with Blackstone. But it’s _you_ who has no idea. I’m not—” he struggles, putting it into words, the black cloud of worry that has enveloped him since they turned that corner toward the mountains. He runs his hands anxiously through his hair. “Whatever I do after tomorrow, my life as I’ve known it is over. Maybe literally. Maybe just putting myself on the shitlist of what turns out to be a blackmarket weapons manufacturer.” He pauses, face hardening stubbornly. “Look I _know_ you were listening to my phone call the other day. Richardson already told me they’re not going to let me break my contract without pursuing it, so lets just say they let me off easy and only bankrupt me and burn me professionally—where the _fuck_ does it leave me?” 

His voice chokes off at the end of the statement, and he wraps his arms around himself. “I’m fucked either way. I know I can’t just…just put my head down and do my job for another two years pretending I don’t have any doubts about helping them build some kind of fucking weapon that can level towns like that one on purpose. But there’s no just…just walking away either. It’s all or nothing and I’m—I don’t want to have nothing. Even if it’s the right thing to do.” 

Steve reaches a hand out for him again, face filled with earnest concern. “Bucky I can—I’ll protect you, I won’t let—” 

“No you won’t!” Bucky says, his voice rising as he gives in to some of the fear, and lets it come out of his mouth as anger. Steve snatches his hand back as if he’s been burned. “You’re going your own way tomorrow too, remember? That’s what Santa Fe means. Maybe you’ll make sure I don’t get quietly knocked off when I hand in my notice but—” a sick sensation rises in Bucky’s throat, along with the acid in his words. He turns his face away from Steve’s stricken expression, not ready for Steve’s sad face to pour water on the small, fragile flame of his temper. “But then you go back to your life. Your _real_ one. You can’t play bodyguard forever. Tomorrow or the day after or maybe the day after that if you’re really generous. And I have nothing to go back to.” 

That’s the truth of it. Bucky realizes that’s the heart of the matter as the words leave him with a sort of wrenching pain, and he immediately slumps his shoulders, feeling hollow. He has a day to consider his options—and they aren’t many. It’s just like he said, all or nothing. He’s accepted that he can’t just keep on, not if Steve’s intel on Blackstone proves what they suspect. And Bucky knows that it will, with a heavy sort of certainty like a stone in the pit of his stomach. He knows that all of his denials have rung false, and that Steve’s worried suspicion have struck true. 

But where does it leave him, doing the right thing? 

Bucky tilts his face skyward again, feeling cold moonlight fall across it as two unbidden tears run down over his cheeks. He makes an angry noise, brushing them away. He’s cried too much these past few days. But it doesn’t stop them falling, and he is overwhelmed quickly by the force of them, with a sob that escapes his throat even as he tries to fight down the tide. 

He turns away from Steve, toward the rough trunk of the pine, hunching his shoulders and trying to pull everything back again to where it had been so recently been frozen hard as ice in his chest. But he can’t reverse the flow any more than he could tell the water in the creek to go back up the mountain and become snow again. His shoulders shudder under another quiet, violent sob. 

Bucky barely has time to register the heat of Steve at his back, before Steve’s hands are on him, turning him forcefully and wrapping him up in the unyielding iron band of Steve’s arms. Bucky doesn’t try to resist, letting himself be crushed against Steve’s chest and burying his face in Steve’s shirt. He stops fighting the tears too, and his body shakes with small, muffled sounds as he cries himself out, face pressed hard just over the steady pound of Steve’s heart. 

At last, the flood of tears begins to subside, and Bucky hiccups the last of the torrent into silence at Steve’s chest. At some point Steve had begun stroking his hair, crooning a soft, soothing stream of murmured words by his ear. 

When Steve seems to think that the last of it is over, he pulls back a little, and moves his hand down very slowly to tip Bucky’s face up to look at him. He almost can’t stand to meet Steve’s eyes, to face the care and worry on it, especially knowing the absolute wreck his own face must be from an ugly cry. But Steve keeps his hand there, thumb pressed into the dip of Bucky’s chin, gentle but firm. 

“Tell me,” he says. His other arm is wrapped tight around Bucky’s waist, holding him close. “Tell me what you’re afraid of. What you think specifically is going to happen tomorrow, if you go in and quit.” 

“I think—” Bucky hiccups again, and closes his eyes. “I think they might not let me walk back out. I know more than they’d want me to, if you’re right about them. And if they do—” he stops, letting himself for the first time really consider the possibilities. “They won’t just send me on my merry way. I signed a five year _contract_, and on top of that I’ve violated my NDA every day I’ve known you. If I walk out, it’ll be because they know they can burn me so that I never do this work again, or _any_ work again. It’ll be because they can ruin me without killing me.” He chokes over the watery words. “I don’t know which would be worse. But either way I’m through. They won’t just let me walk away.” 

Steve takes in a deep, shaky breath, and when Bucky opens his eyes again he can see that Steve is angry. 

“Were you going to tell me? Before tomorrow? I told you I wanted to help, were you even going to say anything so that I could—” 

Bucky cuts him off. “I never _expected_ you to _save_ me Steve, that’s what I’m trying to tell you—you _can’t_.” 

Steve’s jaw clenches. “I don’t accept that.” 

Bucky laughs weakly, shaking his head. “I know. But I don’t think it’s yours to accept.” 

“_No_,” Steve says fiercely, giving Bucky a small shake, “there’s always a way, Bucky. There should always be a way, when you’re doing the right thing.” 

“Says the guy who crashed that plane and died for it,” Bucky whispers, the heat gone out of him. But he can see that the words hit Steve the same as if he’d shouted them. 

To his surprise, Steve releases his hold on Bucky’s chin, sliding his hand around to grip tightly at the back of Bucky’s neck instead, and leans down to kiss him hard. Bucky makes a small, startled noise against Steve’s mouth, but then leans into it. He kisses Steve rough and desperate, like clinging to a life raft in a choppy sea. The heat of Steve’s mouth on his, and of his righteous anger, protective and determined, slide into Bucky and dislodge the last of the calcified feeling under his ribs. He pulls back, gasping, feeling his eyes threaten to fill again. They don’t—but only because Bucky thinks he spent all the tears he had stored up already tonight. 

Steve meets his eyes again, lips reddened from kissing him. “We will _make_ a way for you.” 

Bucky doesn’t have it in him to protest, or even to challenge Steve and ask him how. For right now it doesn’t matter. _He_ knows there’s nothing they can do. It’ll be what it will be. And he doesn’t want to fight any more. So he just nods. 

Steve peers at him for a long moment, looking unhappy. He opens his mouth, and for a moment Bucky thinks he means to continue, to try to convince him. But then he closes it again, and instead he relaxes his hold on Bucky, changing his grip and turning him slightly. Steve scoops Bucky up—as easily as he had the night before, although the feel of it couldn’t be more different. That had been in the heat of desire, and now he picks Bucky up with one arm at his back, the other under his knees, cradling Bucky to his chest as tenderly as one would a child. 

Bucky lets himself be carried that way, back into the meadow, and be deposited just inside their tent. Steve moves away to retrieve the lantern, and Bucky works on kicking off his boots and jeans. He realizes with a pang that Steve had set up their two bedrolls as one, the sleeping bags zipped together. He crawls inside as Steve returns and undresses too, climbing in and zipping the tent flap shut. 

Steve flicks off the lantern, and shuffles into the sleeping bag beside Bucky. His skin is hot, and Bucky doesn’t fight the urge to be drawn into his gravity like a moth toward a flame, soaking something of Steve’s heat into his own icy skin. 

Steve lets him, running his hands over and over again across Bucky’s arms and down his sides, until Bucky can feel his fingers and toes again. 

“_I_ will make you a way to do this Bucky.” Steve whispers, nose ghosting over Bucky’s cheek. “I won’t _let_ this destroy you.” 

Bucky doesn’t reply. He just tilts his head, finding Steve’s mouth in the dark with his. 

After a few minutes of kissing, a hushed sound in the little tent, he pushes on Steve’s shoulder, rolling him onto his back to climb on top of him. Steve gasps in surprise, but he doesn’t protest. And soon enough he gets with the program, giving as good as he gets, and Bucky’s satisfied with that. 

Whatever happens tomorrow to prove either of them right or wrong—tonight, at least, they can still have this. 

Bucky awakes in the bleak chill of an early mountain morning, shivering slightly. 

He figures out quickly that the reason for it is that his personal furnace that had kept him warm through the night is no longer next to him in the sleeping bag. He sits up, and finds that Steve had piled both of their jackets over him before he left—but it wasn’t an adequate substitute for his body heat. Bucky shivers, grabbing for his clothes as fast as he can to minimize the amount of contact his skin has to make with the cold air, then ducks back into the sleeping bag to wiggle and squirm ungracefully into them. 

Covered in several more layers, Bucky feels like he can brave emerging. He creeps out of the tent, breathing deeply of the crisp, piney air. There’s a heavy mist still hanging over the meadow, the sun not high enough yet to have burned it off, and everything in the clearing is still and quiet. 

He looks around but doesn’t see any evidence of Steve in their camp. Bucky sighs, rummaging through their supplies to find one of the bottles of iced coffee he’d stashed away for himself. It’s not as bracing as the real thing, but it’ll do for now. 

With Steve nowhere to be seen for the moment, there’s no excuse not to make the call he knows he can’t put off. Bucky trudges back to the sheltering branches of the crooked pine tree, and slips his phone from his pocket. 

Richardson answers half-way into the second ring. 

“Barnes,” he says in his cool, curiously uninflected voice. “Capacity report?” 

“Same as yesterday,” Bucky says, closing his eyes and leaning his back hard against the trunk of the tree. “Storm fizzled.” 

“Mm,” Richardson says, supremely disinterested. Bucky knows he’d never cared about the potential readings from that event anyway. “And your location now?” 

“Camped overnight. Should be in Santa Fe by noon. You want me to come in directly?” 

“No,” Richardson says, and there’s some kind of noise happening in the background, he doesn’t sound like he’s giving Bucky his full attention. Bucky assumes he doesn’t rate it. “There have been some developments. I’ll need to get the equipment ready for you. Get yourself settled in Santa Fe, come to the site at…8pm. East gate. I’ll have someone meet you.” 

“Okay,” Bucky says, and chews on his lip, torn. He wants to try to gauge what he’s looking at—but he also wants to put off the point of no return as long as he can. “Listen, Richardson, can I get a little face time with you? I’d like to…discuss the remainder of my contract.”

A long silence follows, stretching taut enough that Bucky knows it’s going to snap, and he’ll say something he hadn’t intended to. But finally, Richardson speaks. 

“Should I be concerned that you haven’t taken me at my word in our _previous_ discussions, Bucky?” 

A chill runs up and down the length of Bucky’s spine at the sound of his nickname in Richardson’s featureless voice. In all the time he’s been checking in with him, he’s only ever called Bucky “Barnes.” 

“No! I mean, not—” Bucky fumbles, “I mean—I’m half-way through and there’s just some things I’d like to—to touch base about.” 

Another too-long pause comes across the line, and Bucky’s throat closes up nervously. 

“Fine,” Richardson says at last. “In that case, better make it 9. East gate.” 

The line goes dead. 

Bucky slumps against the tree, letting the bark scrape and catch on his flannel, and scrubs at his eyes. 

Tonight is not going to go well. 

And yeah, he’d meant what he’d said to Steve last night, even if he’d expressed it in a rush of emotion—he knew as soon as he’d let himself consider the possibility that extricating himself from this situation was not going to be as simple as handing in his notice. But still, some part of him had hoped he was wrong. That Blackstone could afford to let him walk away unscathed—that he could smooth it over with Richardson and make him forget all the ways that Bucky’s already implied he knows more than they’ve told him. 

Well. When hope dies it makes space for practicality. It’s probably better to go into this thing knowing what to expect and being prepared for it rather than saving a bunch of his brain space for shiny unrealistic possibilities. 

Out across the meadow, the sun is finally beginning to break through the grey mist, breaking through to illuminate swatches of dewy, green grass. 

Movement at the far edge of the field catches Bucky’s eye. 

It’s Steve, walking out of the line of trees, back tall and straight, golden head shining in the sun. He turns his face, too far away for Bucky to see the expression, toward the tent, pausing for a moment. He doesn’t see Bucky, hidden partially by the lacy branches of his tree, and Bucky stays still. After a moment, he turns again, marching toward some unseen destination down and out of sight on the other side of the grassy hollow. He looks purposeful, even if Bucky can’t imagine what his purpose is in exploring this morning. 

Bucky feels, despite himself, a small swell of envy in his chest at Steve’s certainty. He wishes that somehow he could absorb some of it. That in those moments when they press against each other skin to skin, he could steal some of Steve’s character along with his warmth. But apparently skin isn’t a permeable membrane for things like bravery. 

He feels a twinge of guilt, thinking of what he’d said to Steve about crashing his plane. But he hadn’t been wrong—and that’s probably why the blow had landed. Steve had done that expecting full well that it was his death, without seeming to question that he had to do it anyway. Bucky wishes he could borrow a little of that for whatever he faces next—a little of Steve’s strength and courage and goodness. _Or maybe_, says a cruel corner of his mind, _it wasn’t any of that, and he was just being stupid, or willfully ignorant. Maybe it wasn’t nobility, just recklessness_. Bucky shakes his head, and hates himself for thinking it. Even if that were true the result of his self-sacrifice was the same—heroic. If it wasn’t strength, he’d take a little bit of that kind of stupidity right now. 

For now, it looks like he’s going to have to do without it. Whenever Steve returns, they’ll have to set out on the road to Santa Fe. 

He watches the spot on the edge of the field where Steve had disappeared, and briefly allows himself to consider the virtue of recklessness. If Steve were in his shoes, what would he do? Probably he’d refuse to go into the meeting on Blackstone’s terms. He’d barrel in there right now, no hesitation, full steam ahead—a one man wrecking ball. 

Maybe Bucky should. Maybe he should just go, leave Steve here to make his way off the mountain and plunge into his fate directly. Steve wouldn’t forgive him, but in the end Steve’s forgiveness probably wouldn’t change the facts. 

He pictures it, for a moment, just grabbing his keys and going—no more thinking or feeling or any of it. It’s not so long a drive, if he made good time and didn’t stop to wait for night to fall. 

But he knows he can’t do it. It’s not in him to leave Steve behind now, or to rush the inevitable, even if a whole day of pondering it feels untenable.

Bucky pushes himself forward from the tree, and makes his way to break down the campsite. And if his feet feel numb, and his head is cloudy with fear, it doesn’t matter. His body obeys him in doing what has to be done regardless. 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _You sit there in your heartache_   
_Waiting on some beautiful boy to_   
_To save you from your old ways_   
_To play forgiveness_   
_Watch it now, here he comes_
> 
> When You Were Young, The Killers


	6. Into the Shining Sun

Steve’s boots scrape a little, sliding over a patch of gravel on the side of the rocky outcropping as he climbs. 

He pulls himself over the top of it, momentarily blinded by the bright morning sun pouring into his face as he does. He blinks the light out of his eyes, crouching down on the edge of the rock, and the view below him comes back into focus. 

It’s beautiful. From below his perch sweeps a sloping valley covered in pine trees. Beyond that, higher, more distant peaks rise blue and purple against the sky. Around him, the rest of the inhabitants of this little corner of the world are waking up too, and he can hear the warbling of a bird and the low drone of insects rising from the shrubs growing out of the rock around him. 

He takes in a deep, bracing lungful of mountain air, and something loosens in his chest—something that had never thawed through his months in New York, at last coming back to life. 

It was worth a little bit of a hike and a climb for this view, even if the view itself hadn’t been his only aim in leaving the still quiet of the meadow behind for a while. 

He sighs, swinging his legs over to kick his heels against the rock, and takes his phone out of his pocket. For some reason he hadn’t quite wanted to make this call, to pick up the thread of his real life still surrounded by the hush of his and Bucky’s campsite. Even if calling is going to connect the pieces again, he’d wanted a little distance to make himself do it. 

He dials quickly—there aren’t many numbers in his phone. 

“I’ve been waiting for this call,” Natasha’s voice says, low and without preamble after the first ring. 

“Yeah?” Steve asks, mulish. 

“Yeah,” she says back, simply. He hears a rustling and the slide of a door as she changes her location. There had been street sounds in the background when she answered, but now there’s silence but for her breath and voice. “Blackstone?” She asks. 

Steve sighs and hunches his shoulders. “You kept digging?” It’s a statement as much as a question. 

“I did,” Natasha says. “But for my information I’m going to ask for a little in exchange.” 

“Such as?” 

“Don’t play dumb with me Steve, you’re not that good an actor.” There’s a small curve of a smile in her voice, which Steve can hear clear as day, so he can’t even resent her for being too-perceptive by half. “Tell me why this hit your radar.” 

“It’s…complicated, Romanoff.” He says. 

Natasha laughs dryly. “The only thing that could’ve really shocked me was if it hadn’t been complicated. You’re a complicated guy, Steve. But I’ve got time—and a file that’ll make your hair curl. So start talking. Your bike broke down and next I know you’re asking about a weapons firm that had managed to escape even my attention. Start there.” 

“Right, my bike,” Steve says with another sigh, settling in. Natasha isn’t one to be bullied into relenting until she has the full story, and if he doesn’t offer it up like a friend might, he knows she’ll start plying her other interrogation skills on him. “My bike broke down and I started walking—thought I’d hitch.” Natasha snorts, but doesn’t comment. “As it happened there was no ride to hitch because I was walking into a massive storm. Figured I’d have to hoof it through the rain, but finally someone came by. He offered me a lift, but he—well, he was out in the storm for a reason. He’s a storm chaser.” 

“Uh huh,” Nat says. “Name?” He hears the soft snick of computer keys as she asks. 

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” Steve says, peevishly. “I don’t like when you do your googling while I’m talking to you.” 

That earns a real laugh. “Okay, guilty. Continue.” 

Steve takes in a deep breath, and plunges on. “It was really something—watching him work. He has this crazy equipment for—anyway. We got through this electrical storm and he asked where I was going. Turned out he was headed the same way and he…offered to let me tag along for a few days.”

“And you accepted?” Natasha asks, with keen, surprised interest. 

“Yeah,” Steve admits, wishing he couldn’t guess what is racing through her head right now. Nobody’s ever accused him of being the Most Sociable Avenger. “Honestly the storm stuff was fun and he was…fun. So I said sure. But then…”

“Then you started wondering _why_ he had all this crazy equipment?” Nat supplies, correctly. 

“More or less. I uh—accidentally caught the name of the company who’d hired him to do it.” 

“Which is when you texted me,” Natasha confirms again. 

“Right.”

“Which I’m assuming didn’t make you feel a lot better about your ‘fun’ detour. And did you tell him what I told you?”

“Eventually,” Steve says, slowly. “There’s more but—christ I don’t even know where to get into it.” 

“Why don’t you start with how…James Buchanan Barnes received the news of your suspicions?” 

Steve swears, and Natasha chuckles in triumph. 

“You’ve got no poker face, Rogers, I was only like 40% sure that was your guy. He’s pretty.” 

“Fuck off,” Steve grumbles. He shouldn’t be surprised. 

“No, I’m invested now. Which I’m assuming is your very dilemma. A little more invested in James than you intended to be, maybe?” 

Steve considers how he wants to answer that. He hasn’t been purposefully cagey about his sexuality. He’s just never said anything about it one way or another—hasn’t said anything about himself in a lot of areas. But certain facts of his life, namely Peggy, are well known without him sharing, and even Avengers make assumptions about things like that. Maybe Avengers especially, the kind of people who get to thinking they know everything without having to ask. Which, now that he thinks about it, may be why he gets stubborn about offering anything up—rebelling against everyone thinking they know him anyway. Let ’em go ahead and be wrong. 

“Something like that,” he says, finally—a non-answer. “I don’t know what your file says, but he’s a good person.”

Natasha reads his answer like a book anyway, but spares him any surprise. “That’s good. You deserve a good person in your life. He uh…invested in you too?” 

“Yeah, I think so,” Steve says, much more uncomfortable in answering for Bucky’s side of this than he is his own. He shakes his head and rubs his forehead, irritated. “I don’t know…I don’t know. That’s not the point.” 

“Maybe not yours,” Natasha says, enigmatically. “But go on—Blackstone.”

“Blackstone,” Steve says, heavily. “We talked about it. He’s got a contract, and they—I don’t know, Natasha. It’s weird. They did something, when he signed on, with his arm…” 

“Yeah I saw something along those lines, wasn’t sure if the info was good. Reads a lot like science fiction. But these are science fiction times I guess.” 

“Yeah. Well bad science fiction about sums up what they’re doing. He thinks it’s—I guess there have been storms, different ones…since Thor. And New York. I didn’t know, that it—changed things all over. But there’s power in them that isn’t…normal.” 

“So they’re data mining the funky space storms.” 

“Apparently,” Steve huffs. As much as he’d sort of dreaded this conversation, he feels a little calmer having it with someone who takes it at face value. Somebody who’s seen the same shit he has, and can understand at least a little of his sense of responsibility here, and his worry. “He doesn’t think—I don’t think it’s good.” 

“And does James—”

“Bucky,” Steve cuts in. “His name is Bucky.” 

“Does Bucky want out?” 

“That’s why I called. He doesn’t think they’re going to let him out.” 

“Smart boy.” 

Steve’s mouth twists. “He is, I think.” 

“And you?” 

“Told him I’d protect him. I’m not gonna—” Steve hesitates, the image of Bucky’s hopeless expression during their argument last night rising in front of him. “I’m not just going to crash into his life, tell him he’s gotta cut ties with an evil research firm and leave him to deal on his own.” 

“Well, you better make good then,” Natasha says, lightly. “Can’t make a liar out of you. I have big hopes for meeting the guy that managed to get you all twisted up in knots, definitely don’t want him in a shallow grave in the desert before then.”

Steve’s chest clenches. “You think that’s what would happen?” 

Natasha sighs. “Guess this is where I open my files and share.” She pauses, and Steve waits, holding his breath. “Yeah, honestly I do. I wasn’t sure when you texted—if this was just some publicity stunt by Hammer to get back into good graces at the DOD—or just piss off Tony, I dunno. He’s kind of an idiot. But he’s an evil, well-resourced one, and he doesn’t mind hiring people who can _actually_ get a shady job done.” She clacks away briefly at her keyboard. “I put an agent on it, but this thing is pretty well locked down. What I got tells me there’s no doubt it’s weapons, and this week they opened a new compound that looks like they’ve given the green light on manufacturing whatever it is they wanted the data for. I don’t know if it was luck or good planning that they timed it for when we were all still distracted putting New York back together, but there’s no way this should’ve gone unnoticed by Shield.” 

“You don’t think it’s legal then?” 

“I think they’ve got enough permits for what they say they’re doing that they’ve gotten away with whatever they really wanted to work on.” Natasha laughs. “Why, you fussed about pissing off the government?” 

“No,” Steve replies, easily. “Just wondering how much back up I can get if I wanted it.” 

“Well that’s another kettle of fish,” she muses. “I’ve got Selvig on it. Figured it would be good to get his take since he was on site in New Mexico _and_ New York. He doesn’t like it either. Clint would help if I asked. Other than that…you know how red tape is. I can take it to Fury and try to get a team ready but I can tell you what he’s going to say—and you’re not going to like it.” 

“What’s that?” Steve asks, dryly. 

“He’s going to say that before we bust down the front door we oughta try and infiltrate so we know what their research says. He doesn’t like to blow something up before he knows everything it can tell him.” 

“I don’t like it,” Steve shoots back. Nat laughs. 

“Didn’t think so. In which case you’ve got me, Clint, and Selvig.” She pauses, and then adds, tone thoughtful, “And Bucky. What do you wanna do, Cap?” 

Steve hums, mind whirring as a plan starts to form. It’s sketchy still, and maybe a little bull-headed. But it feels good, and Steve’s mouth tugs up at the corners as he settles into it.

“How quick could you get a flight to Santa Fe?” 

Steve finds Bucky waiting at the truck when he returns, campsite packed and cleaned. No one would ever know they’d been there at all, except for a small square of crushed grass at one edge of the meadow where there tent had been, and a few blackened rocks from their fire ring once again scattered around the ground. 

Bucky is sitting in the driver’s seat with the door open, scrolling idly on his phone plugged into the center console. He looks up as Steve approaches, and smiles. 

“Finished?” He asks. He doesn’t ask Steve what he was doing off on his own. Maybe he already knows. 

Steve nods. “Ready when you are.” 

Bucky laughs, a little humorlessly, and pulls his feet up into the truck, nodding at Steve to get in. 

They crunch back down the curving lane to the main road. There’s more traffic on it today, and Bucky waits for a gap in the cars to pull out onto it, a circumspect expression on his face. 

“You gonna tell me how your call went?” He finally asks, after a few silent minutes of driving. 

“About what you expected,” Steve replies. “But I’m working on it.” 

Bucky’s hands are tense on the wheel, but he nods. “You don’t have much time. I have an appointment at 9.” 

“I’ll—we’ll be ready. Don’t worry.” 

Bucky huffs a laugh, and Steve ducks his head, realizing what a stupid thing it was to say. But Bucky had been so scared last night—he just wants to be able to tell him he’s got it all under control. When he tells him the plan he wants him to be _convinced_ that Steve knows what he’s doing, to trust him when he says they’re going to be okay. And he needs a little more information before he thinks he can really sell it, to really overcome Bucky’s pessimism. 

The miles speed by them, almost in a blink. They don’t talk much between the mountain and Santa Fe—Steve knows what it is occupying his attention, as he considers scenarios and tactical strategies, and he can at least guess what’s on Bucky’s. 

He eats a handful of unsatisfying, prepackaged things from their supplies. It all tastes bland and terrible, but Steve wants to make sure he keeps his energy up today, since he doesn’t know what time will be afforded for it later. He checks his phone every fifteen minutes or so, even though he’s not expecting any more communication from Natasha just yet. Maybe she’ll have thought of something else he should know right away in reviewing her intel. 

Bucky’s energy shifts as soon as they see outskirts of the city on the horizon. Suddenly, his listlessness vanishes, and he moves restlessly in his seat—picking up his phone and dropping it again, fiddling with the radio dials and then shutting it off, and checking his mirrors so frequently it looks like he thinks they might even now be pursued. 

“Buck,” Steve says, as they merge onto the main highway, into the flow of a normal work day. He reaches out and rests a hand on Bucky’s thigh. “Do you wanna—we could talk it through? If you want? What I found out?” 

Bucky makes an unhappy noise, jiggling his thigh under Steve’s hand, and shakes his head. “I don’t—I can’t talk about it any more. Not right now. I just need a little bit to—let’s save it til we have to, okay? We got a couple free hours at least, right?” 

Steve looks down at his watch. It’s still several hours til he gets any help, and close to twelve before Bucky is due at Blackstone. So he doesn’t force it, for now. 

They make their way through the pretty, stylized downtown until the picturesque southwestern buildings give way to the less touristy area, which looks like it could belong just about anywhere Steve’s seen in a modern American city. Bucky continues his anxious scanning, but eventually sees something that evidently fits the bill of what he was looking for. He merges over to make a U-turn, pulling into the parking lot of a nice but not overly trendy looking hotel. 

“Might as well get a room,” Bucky says, not looking at Steve. “Clean up and whatever, even if—if we don’t end up staying tonight.” 

“Okay,” Steve agrees. “Sounds good.” 

Bucky, like he has each time before, leaves Steve at the truck and goes in alone to register for a room. 

For the first time, Steve thinks about the fact that they’ve been staying together on Bucky’s Blackstone per diem. He’s not sure, in light of today’s expected events, if the thought is horrifying or funny. Probably he won’t be able to tell until he sees which way the chips fall in the effort to fuck Blackstone’s shit up without getting theirs fucked in return. If they’re successful, he thinks, it’s probably funny that they paid for the whole thing. If they aren’t…well. That just isn’t an option, is all. 

Bucky comes back out of the lobby and gestures at Steve with one hand holding a sleeve of keycards. So Steve climbs out and follows him up a flight of outer stairs. 

Bucky goes in directly, leaving the door open for Steve to catch up. He’s already dropped his bag on the chair in the corner, and is plugging his phone charger in on his side of the bed. _His side of the bed_, Steve repeats to himself, savoring it. 

Steve watches him out of the corner of his eye, automatically cataloguing all of the small shifts in Bucky’s raincloud of an expression as he moves around fidgeting with things. He settles for a moment, picking up the info binder. A moment later, he’s up again, fiddling with the air-conditioning. The next he makes a frustrated sound and begins tugging at the laces on his boots, kicking them frustratedly into a corner. Finally, he stands up and just starts pacing. He even pulls the tie in his hair loose, freeing it from the small bun it had been gathered into at his nape so that he can better run his hands through it. 

Steve takes his shoes off too, at a slightly less frenetic pace, and watches him, uncertain of what he can or should say. 

Eventually, he gives up trying to guess. Bucky’s face is too mercurial for him to gauge, his mood too unsettled. 

“Bucky, tell me what you need,” he says, standing at the foot of the bed, blocking Bucky’s path as Bucky turns in his circuit at the far end of the room. “You can’t do this all day, you’ll wear yourself out. Just—talk to me, or don’t but—tell me what I can do?” 

Bucky stares at him for a long moment, and then closes his eyes, turning his face upward as if asking for strength. Steve stays still, waiting. 

Bucky opens his eyes, and the blazing, heated look in them is the only warning Steve gets before he crosses the floor between them in two quick strides. His hands come up to grip Steve’s face, fingers digging into his jaw as he kisses him fiercely. 

Steve’s arms come up automatically to close around Bucky’s waist, grounding himself as Bucky kisses him mercilessly. Bucky leans in, tipping against Steve’s center of gravity and catching him off guard, propelling him back a step and a half to pin him against the wall. 

Bucky makes a breathless sound, and his hands dart away from Steve’s face, tugging at his jacket and shirt and pulling him closer, like he can’t quite decide on a purpose here. He manages to shove Steve’s jacket off his shoulders onto the floor, and hooks his fingers in Steve’s belt loops, pulling Steve’s hips toward him. 

Steve gasps, and finally gets his feet under him enough to break away, panting. “Bucky, slow down—you don’t have to—” 

Bucky makes an annoyed sound, releasing Steve’s beltloops only to twine his arms tightly around Steve’s waist, looking up at him with a mix of hunger and frustration. 

“Yes I do, Steve I do have to—you’re right, I can’t—you asked me what I needed, didn’t you?” His voice is hoarse, but pleading, like his life depends on making Steve understand this. 

Steve sighs, and lets his body relax into Bucky’s. He nods. 

“I need—I want you,” Bucky continues, eyes intent on Steve’s. “To get me out of my own head for a minute. Okay? I know there’s too much we have to…but can’t we have this first, for a little bit?” 

Steve flicks his tongue over his bottom lip, and takes a deep breath. His body is already filling with heat, responding to Bucky’s touch. 

“I can do that,” he says, just above a whisper. 

Bucky tips his face up, kissing him again. It still has an edge of desperation to it, but it’s gentler now. 

“Come get in the shower with me,” Bucky whispers, drawing back. “You wearing clothes is overrated.”

Steve laughs, low, and peers back into Bucky’s face for a moment. He’s not sure if he should make Bucky stop—if they’re wasting time when Steve should be grilling him for all the Blackstone insider information he can provide ahead of tonight’s jaunt. But there’s a sharp, fragile look in Bucky’s eye that tells him it wouldn’t do either of them any good right now. 

Or maybe he’s just justifying because he _wants_ to give in. Either way, when Bucky turns, flicking him a look over his shoulder that’s half-seductive and half-uncertain as he grabs his toiletry kit from his open bag and heads for the bathroom, Steve follows. 

It occurs to Steve that he’d follow Bucky a lot of places—this hotel shower and a dark weapons manufacturer’s stronghold only being two at the top of a long potential list. Bucky had said that Steve wouldn’t be able to play bodyguard forever, but the joke is on him. Steve would follow him like a dog after scraps—maybe as long as Bucky would let him. 

The knowledge catches in his throat, and seeps into his skin as Bucky reaches for his hand, tugging him into the little room. He feels lightheaded with it. It doesn’t _matter_ what Santa Fe meant to them and for them a week ago. It’s something different now—and for him that _different_ isn’t the end. Not if Bucky doesn’t want it to be. 

A slow grin spreads over his face as Bucky kicks the bathroom door shut, stepping away from Steve to spin the controls on the shower. 

“What?” Bucky asks, smiling back questioningly when he turns around and catches Steve staring at him. 

Steve shakes his head. Now isn’t the time—he’s only just begun to realize it, and there’s too much else muddying the waters. He just smiles and reaches for Bucky, pulling him back to kiss him again, lingering. 

Bucky leans into him, letting Steve kiss him at his own, slow pace for a moment. But Steve can still feel the tension and urgency in him, coiled just under the surface. 

Steve smiles against Bucky’s mouth, and then steps back, stripping his t-shirt off over his head, eyebrows raised. Bucky’s face floods with relief, even with his eyes darkened with heat, and he fumbles quickly with his own clothes, shedding pieces onto the floor as Steve does the same. 

Bucky’s still kicking off his jeans, which have tangled around his ankles nearly tripping him in his haste, as Steve presses in again, nudging him toward the open door of the shower, grabbing what they need from Bucky’s kit as he goes. 

There’s steam already filling up the space. It’s a large, tiled walk-in, rather than the basic combination style that’s been standard to their motels and hotels previously. Steve wonders briefly if Bucky had known that when he picked the place, but he doesn’t complain. The cool tile feels good at his back as Bucky spins to push him against it, the spray hitting him gently. 

This time, he lets Bucky set the pace—and his hands are everywhere, sliding across Steve’s shoulders and chest, down his ribs and across his flanks as the water sluices over both of them. Steve’s own hands wander too, following Bucky’s lead as he pushes and pulls back at him, like the steps of a dance. 

Steve’s hands eventually land at Bucky’s hips, tugging him close and keeping him there to rut against each other. Bucky gasps and breaks away from where his mouth had been sucking a bruise under Steve’s ear. 

“Can you go twice?” He asks, breathless. 

“Usually,” Steve says, his voice deep with building anticipation. “For you, definitely. Whatever you want.” 

“Good,” is all Bucky says, before sinking to his knees. Steve tips forward to angle the shower head away so that it isn’t blinding him, now hitting Bucky mid-back. And then he closes his eyes, squaring his shoulders against the tile wall and lets Bucky have his way. 

Bucky doesn’t let up an inch, working so determinedly and single-mindedly at his goal that it isn’t long at all before Steve is twitching his fingers in Bucky’s dripping hair in warning. It’s been a long time since someone had their mouth on him like this so his defenses are low, but he still thinks it’s more that it’s _Bucky_ that has him there so fast, and that Bucky has a particularly clever mouth. 

Steve comes with a stifled groan, and Bucky doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t close his eyes either, but keeps them fixed, wide and hazy on Steve’s face until Steve slumps over him, running shaking fingers down his jaw and across his cheek.

Bucky rocks back on his heels with a small sigh, though Steve can see that the lines of him are still wound tight. Steve leans down and pulls him up by his shoulders to kiss him again, hot and messy. 

Then he turns Bucky, pressing _his_ chest now against the cold tile, and runs his hands suggestively down his smooth, bare back. Bucky turns his cheek against the wall and moans, his eyes shutting now. 

_This_ Steve is going to do at his pace, he thinks. And he’s not going to be satisfied until the frantic tension is gone from every line and muscle, until it gives way to the electric hum of their bodies moving together in desire. 

Bucky doesn’t want to think anymore—Steve can do his best to make that happen. 

This time, without the blinding reality of it being a _first_ between them to distract him, Steve pays close attention to all the little shifts and sounds Bucky makes, telling him what he likes and when he does something just right, first as he fingers him and then when he finally pushes inside. He stores it all away, with the firm intention that it won’t be the last time—that he’ll need to know how to make this good again, next time, and the times after that. 

He fucks him slow by turns, fast and hard by others—drawing it out as Bucky writhes beneath him, pressed up against the shower wall.

The water is running cool by the time he’s achieved his ends, but it’s a welcome coolness on the burning heat of their skin locked together. Bucky arches a final time, his palms flat against the tile and mouth dropping open silently. Steve drapes over his back with a last, deep thrust, locking his mouth against the pounding pulse in Bucky’s neck as he comes, Steve’s fingers digging hard into his hipbones as he fucks him through it. 

It only takes the sound of Bucky’s orgasm to pull him over into his own a few moments later. So this time they both slump at the end of it, though Steve keeps his footing secure so Bucky can tip back into the supporting circle of his arms with a sigh. 

Steve pushes Bucky’s wet bangs out of his face, and Bucky lets his head fall against Steve’s shoulder—his expression relaxed, the worry gone for the moment. Steve smiles. 

“Let’s go lie down for a little,” Steve whispers, dropping a kiss at the corner of Bucky’s mouth. 

Bucky just nods, and lets Steve shepherd him through a quick, final rinse, and back out through the throughly steamed up bathroom into the clean, crisp sheets of their bed. 

Steve shuffles quietly around Bucky’s side, pulling the second layer of blackout curtains to plunge the room into a kind of dim twilight. Then he crawls in beside him. 

Though he knows he isn’t going to be able to nap, it’s nice to do his thinking with his body wrapped around Bucky’s warm, loose form as Bucky drowses quickly into sleep. 

Bucky is still asleep later on, his head heavy on the pillow, when Steve’s phone makes a soft noise from the pocket of his discarded jeans. Steve imagines that Bucky hadn’t slept much the night before, between the only bearably comfortable tent and the anxiety looming over him. 

He doesn’t wake up as Steve dresses, or when he slips quietly from the room. 

Steve leaves a note on the bedside table—but he crosses his fingers that just maybe Bucky won’t wake up needing it. 

Steve isn’t sure how long he’ll be out—but he hopes he can make it quick. 

He waits until he’s in the hallway to fit the small communication device into his ear, and taps the number on his phone, moving fast but silently down the outer stairs as he starts with a low voice, 

“Okay Natasha, I’m moving. Tell me what you’ve got.” 

* 

Bucky takes a long drag on his cigarette, and ruminates morosely that he’s glad he’d sprung for a fancy hotel today. In fact, if he’s about to burn all his Blackstone bridges in a blaze of self-sacrificial glory, he sort of wishes he’d been splurging on their dime before now. He could’ve enjoyed a whole week of expensive room service fuck-yous. 

But at least he can enjoy a last stay in style, all expenses paid. The shower had been worth it on its own. And the small balcony on which he now sits, smoking moodily, is a perk as well. The weather is even behaving itself, a nice little gift for a dead man walking to enjoy a smoke. 

Bucky stubs out his cigarette and reaches for the pack to tap out another. Today of all days he’s not going to give himself too hard about rationing his vices—what’s the point? Might as well enjoy it. 

He pulls his bare feet up onto the deck chair, and wraps his free arm around his knees. The sun is going mellow with the late afternoon, staining the buildings around him dark gold. 

Bucky wonders when Steve will be back—and how long he’s been gone. He’d woken up an hour or so ago to a note that was light on details, not entirely surprised to find himself alone. 

Still, it had left him feeling low. Hotels always have something of a liminal space about them, and as he hangs suspended in the uncertainty of the next few hours, being by himself to think about it only makes it seem more unreal. Maybe Steve won’t be back at all. Maybe he imagined all of it, and he’ll wake up somewhere back in Oklahoma with a hangover and a voicemail from Richardson telling him to come in next week, and he’ll have to start it all over again. 

If Steve had been a dream, Bucky thinks, he was a good one. Even with tension winding his muscles tight again as he sits waiting, his body still holds the memory of Steve’s and the myriad gentle and possessive ways he’d touched Bucky. The things he’d given and the things he’d taken as they’d lost themselves, for a few minutes at least, to each other. 

He might’ve tried to tell himself earlier today that it was just sex, just a nice distraction. But it couldn’t ever really be—not with someone like Steve.

The sun sinks lower and pinker toward the tops of the buildings sprawled out in front of him. 

Bucky isn’t exactly sure how much time passes, falling into a sort of reverie in the slow loop of his thoughts and the repetitive motion of lighting a cigarette, stubbing it out, lighting another. 

He misses the small snick of the hotel door opening inside, so instead it’s a step behind him that finally draws him out of it, a little startled to look over his shoulder to find Steve leaning in the doorway to the balcony. 

Bucky swallows at the serious look on his face, and looks away. Steve isn’t in his traveling clothes anymore. Somewhere in his outing he’d donned something more official—not quite his garish and recognizable Captain America uniform—but still apparel that makes him look closer to who he is: dark blue tac pants tucked into capable boots, a tight kevlar vest over a dark, long-sleeved shirt. It’s gear for a Mission, which Bucky supposes is what he’s been on. 

Steve steps forward, almost silent even in his boots, and sinks into the other deck chair. 

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Bucky asks, eyes forward. 

Steve sighs heavily and leans forward, arms draped over his knees. “Yeah, it’s bad.” 

Wordlessly, Bucky hands Steve his just-lit cigarette. Steve takes it, leaning back into the chair with another sigh. He hands it back after a couple of puffs, and for a few moments they just pass it back and forth in silence, the cigarette moving between their lips in the absence of words. 

It’s a reprieve, that cigarette, a stay of execution. But when it’s smoked down to the filter, Bucky drops it into the ashtray and turns to Steve. 

“Tell me,” he says. 

Steve nods, looking down at his hands clasped loosely between his knees. 

“It’s…some of what we expected,” Steve says. Bucky just nods, for the moment the question of who all “we” entails can wait. Steve continues, “They’ve moved from research into production. Facilities look pretty new, so I don’t know how far they’ve gotten but…” he hesitates, and Bucky clenches his jaw, nodding for him to go on. 

Steve takes a deep breath and plunges forward, tone even, like he’s making a report to a superior. 

“We expected a weapon—we were only half right. What they’re testing is more…” he flicks his eyes at Bucky again, his eyebrows furrowed heavily. “More like an army. They’ve got people modified—like your arm, but entire. The destructive piece using the storm energy is wearable, so one of their guys walks up to a building or a—wherever—and sets it off, frying anything electrical in range and lighting it up. Leveling it, sometimes, like the storm did in that town. Guess it would pretty much take out any people in the area too. But thanks to the body mods the person wearing the device walks back out clean. It’s like a suicide bomber without the suicide. We watched a few test runs. It works—it works really well. They’ve made it so it’s like—like one of your storms, the odd ones, but concentrated around a human-sized delivery on the ground, so whoever it is can set the eye of it in just the right spot to do the most damage to the target. Selvig says the levels are like taking all the power of one atmospheric disturbance, which usually gets a dispersed between the atmosphere and anything down here, but blasting it out from the ground level. Maximum damage.” 

Bucky feels cold all over, and his knees creak stiffly as if they’d been cemented in place as he unfolds them to set his feet on the ground. 

“So my arm was—it wasn’t just to help the research it—it _was_ the research?”

Steve gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Two birds with one stone, anyway. They obviously wanted the data and power you were collecting too but…yeah.” 

Bucky shudders, and looks down at his left hand, like he doesn’t recognize it. He curls it into a fist away from himself. 

“They had some Suits there, observing. Buyers, we think—and _not_ from the DOD. Natasha’s looking into them but it’s safe to say this is unsanctioned. If the human modifications weren’t clear enough.” 

“Natasha?” Bucky asks. 

“Romanoff.” 

“The Widow…” Bucky says, thinking. “Who—who else you got? A team?” 

Steve hesitates, which sends a flare of worry down Bucky’s spine. 

“A team but…not a big one. There’s no way to cut through the red tape to get this done as fast as we need to. Natasha thinks that if they’ve got buyers already on site, whatever is going down will be happening soon. Immediately, even. So it’s me, Nat, Barton, and Selvig.” 

He sits up straighter, and his voice changes, going firm and commanding. It’s the kind of voice that says jump and you jump, without even waiting to ask how high—you just give it your all. “It’ll have to be enough. I’m not delaying if there’s even a chance one of these—guys—makes it off that compound into the world.”

Bucky is still trying to catch up to the magnitude of it all, his thoughts tangled back in horror at the unwitting part he’s played in it. But he asks anyway, “So what’s your plan?” 

“Well, we’ve got three of us at least. So we’ll divide and conquer. Nat will infiltrate the Research building, get to the servers to hack what info she can before disabling their systems and downloading a virus to scramble the rest. Clint will take the med labs…we don’t know how many recruits they have, and we don’t know how many of them are fully sold out to the project or how many are like—” 

“Like me,” Bucky supplies, tone flat. 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, heavily. “So he’ll lock it down, keep everyone in place while we take care of the rest. And I’ll take the production and testing facilities and—” he pauses. 

“And?” Bucky prompts, though he’s pretty sure he knows the answer. 

“And destroy as much of it as I can before anyone realizes we’re there. Nat brought supplies, so I’ll set as many charges as I can handle before they catch wind of us. After that, we’ll alert Shield to deal with the aftermath, even if they aren’t happy about it.” 

“And Selvig?” Bucky asks. He feels like he’s floating outside of his body, like he’s hearing all of this as a distant historical event somehow. 

“Will be in a surveillance van at a safe distance, monitoring energy levels for spikes and ready to help if we find any tech we didn’t expect. Which is where you’ll be, too—unless I can talk you into just staying here.” 

Steve says the last part in a rush, like he already knows the answer, but he steals a pleading glance at Bucky anyway. 

Bucky shakes his head, thoughtfully at first. Then more firmly. 

“No. I’m not gonna be in the van,” he says. He chews on his bottom lip. “That plan doesn’t make any sense unless I—unless I’m inside too. For my meeting.” 

“_Bucky_,” Steve says, drawing his shoulders up, preparing for a fight. 

Bucky raises his hand to cut him off, and then realizes it’s his left, and snaps it back against his chest, like it might betray him if he doesn’t keep a grip on it. But he speaks his piece anyway. 

“Look, Steve—I’ve _been_ in that research lab. I know how tight the security is. This whole plan hinges on—on Romanoff being able to disable the systems for you and Barton before they can resist right? So if she sets off all the red flags just getting in, there’s no way it leaves you time.” 

“Natasha is good, she—” 

Bucky cuts him off again. “I’m not questioning her abilities, Steve. I’m saying there’s an easier way.” He takes a deep breath. “I’ve already got clearance to enter—I’m expected at 9. They’ll be opening the doors for me and the truck and welcoming us in. If I—” he pauses, hurriedly thinking it through, how it could work…“I keep my appointment, get the Widow in without a big stink getting around guards and clearances. That buys her time to actually get to the servers and do what she needs to do before you’re neck deep in a mercenary security force before you ever even see the inside of the manufacturing plant. Otherwise there’s no way you’ll have time.” 

“Bucky,” Steve says, gently this time, “I promised I’d keep you safe, I’m not going to let you—”

Bucky shakes his head. Steve’s stubborn, but so is he. And his mind is made up. “Don’t. Don’t think about—try to listen to what I’m saying like we aren’t—like I’m not your…friend,” he finishes, lamely, whatever surge of bravery he feels not quite able to extend to naming whatever it is they might have become to each other. “Tell me that having someone already on the inside who can get you where you need to be doesn’t make this plan better? That it wouldn’t be safer for _everyone_ if Blackstone isn’t alerted to a break in from the jump?” 

Steve’s jaw is working, and he clenches and unclenches his hands in front of him, clearly trying to come up with a counter-argument. 

Bucky’s voice softens a little, and he reaches out and places one of his hands on top of Steve’s. 

“Let me do what I can do to make my part in this right. If—if you aren’t successful when I could have done something—if this thing goes to market and hurts people and I know that some of that is on _me_—I _know_ you understand I couldn’t live with myself if that happened.” 

“Bucky,” Steve says again, softly. But his shoulders slump a little, and Bucky knows that he’s already won before Steve says anything else. “I just…want you to be safe.” 

“I know,” Bucky says, smiling sadly. “But I obviously haven’t been for a long time. A long time before I met you. You have to let me do this too.”

Steve nods, slowly. “Okay,” he says. “But if I do, you let me have to say something.” 

“Alright,” Bucky assents, assuming he’s about to receive a speech about not taking any unnecessary risks, maybe about getting out of there as soon as Romanoff is inside. 

To his surprise, Steve instead tilts forward out of his chair, placing himself in front of Bucky, kneeling to look up at him seriously. 

“When this is over—there might be fallout. I have no idea who’s got ties with this thing that isn’t here on the ground. You have to promise me that you’ll let me shield you from that—from whatever happens next. You said I can’t play bodyguard for you forever—” 

Bucky opens his mouth to interject, with what, he’s not sure, but Steve reaches out and grips Bucky’s thighs with his hands, stopping him with a shake of his head. 

“No—listen. I don’t _want_ to go my own way after tonight. Whatever happens I’d like—I want to do it with you. And if you don’t want that, it’s okay. But at least promise me that you’ll let me block you from anything else, so that when you _do_ go your own way it’s free from all this. That you’ll at least let me keep you safe _after_. Please.” 

The _please_ comes in almost a whisper, and Steve’s face is raw and pleading, eyes searching Bucky’s. 

“Steve…” Bucky says, overwhelmed by the request, by the care and affection underpinning it. He’s felt stupid, to be as attached to Steve as he’s become after just a few days…but maybe—if it _is_ stupid—maybe it’s at least a shared stupidity. And that makes it all different. 

“You—you mean it?” 

Steve nods, eyes wide and intent on Bucky’s. 

“I—why? You’re—you’re _you_, why do you even—”

Steve squeezes his grip tighter on Bucky’s legs. 

“Because I want to know you, Bucky Barnes. This week has been—I’m not done knowing you, yet. Not if you’ll let me.” 

A muscle jumps in Bucky’s jaw. He doesn’t know what to say. He cups Steve’s face in his hands, and closes his eyes for a moment. 

“Okay,” he says, opening them again, voice barely audible. “I promise.” 

He leans forward, and presses his lips lightly against Steve’s, as if trapping words between them. 

Steve leans into it, sealing his mouth firmer over Bucky’s. 

Then he pulls back. The one kiss is all they have time for now. 

“I’m not—” Bucky starts, and then tries again, he doesn’t want there to be any uncertainty in his voice for this. “I’m not done knowing you either, Steve Rogers.” 

Steve closes his eyes, laying his hand over Bucky’s at his cheek, and nods. 

Then he stands up, pulling Bucky to his feet as well. 

“Time for you to talk to the team.” 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Lost in thought and lost in time_   
_While the seeds of life and the seeds of change were planted_   
_Outside the rain fell dark and slow_   
_While I pondered on this dangerous but irresistible pastime_   
_I was staring straight into the shining sun_
> 
> Coming Back to Life, Pink Floyd


	7. With a Heart of Gold and Arms to Fall Into

Two and a half hours later, Bucky’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel of the truck as he pulls up to the first external gate at the Blackstone compound.

“Relax, Barnes—it’s just like we talked about,” the Widow’s low, purring voice says in his ear. 

Bucky tries to relax his grip, settling his shoulders. But it’s all easier said than done when you aren’t exactly trained for this kind of thing, Bucky thinks. 

He’d spent two hours with Steve in their hotel room, pouring over a rough map of the place and trying to relay to Natasha and the two others on the phone every detail he had ever vaguely noticed or half-remembered from his visits to the place. He’d talked himself hoarse visualizing guard movements and equipment, signage on doors he’d passed without thinking he’d need to recall them, how employees accessed locked passageways (_an ID card swipe? Maybe? No, pretty sure it isn’t a fingerprint pad…_) and so on. 

And now Natasha is crouched in the back of the truck, concealed amongst the Blackstone equipment as he drives past the first gate—the guy checking his ID and calling in to the facility to make sure he’s cleared to enter as usual before waving him through. It hadn’t been any more or less strict than it usually is, even if Bucky had quailed for a moment under the guard’s scrutiny as he compared him to the photo on his ID. But Bucky knows it’s only going to get dicier the further in they get. 

He pulls around to the research bay where he normally drops the truck for them to offload the cylinders and download data from the equipment. He drives up the ramp as usual, and tries not to look too anxious.

“Keys,” says a bored looking woman in a lab coat. Bucky turns off the truck and slides out, handing them to her. 

Natasha had coached him forcefully not to touch his ear, where the little communicator is. Nobody would see it, she’d said, as long as he doesn’t give them a reason to look for it. Bucky clenches his hand at his side and gives the woman the keys. 

“Right,” she says, checking something off on her clipboard, hardly sparing him a second glance. “Go on with Willard, he’ll take you to your appointment.” 

Bucky looks around and finds a Blackstone goon in black tac gear, who nods to him curtly. 

Bucky swallows, and resists every urge to glance again at the truck before following him through a door at the back of the bay. 

They walk down one fluorescent lit hallway, and Willard swipes his ID card at a set of double metal doors, the pad flicking green. Bucky takes a small sigh of relief that he remembered that right, at least. 

They’re halfway down another long, sterile hallway when over the communicator he hears a sound of surprise—and then a groan and the confusion of two or three bodies as Natasha takes down whoever was left in the research bay to find her. Bucky’s whole body goes tense, and he tries to keep a grimace off his face until it’s quiet again. 

“Nat, all good?” It’s Steve’s voice this time. 

“We’re good,” Natasha confirms, low. “Bucky—I’m going to turn us off in your ear okay? We’ll still be able to hear you if anything goes wrong, but I can _hear_ you flinching. I think it’ll be easier if you don’t have to pretend not to be distracted by us.” 

Bucky has no way to protest, with Willard’s stoney face just ahead of him. And probably she’s right—even if he wishes he were better at this. He wants to be able to hear that they’re okay but—if anything isn’t, she’s not wrong that it’ll absolutely show on his face. 

The soft sounds in his ear go silent. 

Willard stops outside another metal door, and turns to Bucky, face impassive. 

“Arms up,” he says, clicking a wand-like instrument off his belt. 

Bucky lifts his arms, and Willard runs the metal detector over him. Bucky’s heart pounds, but it doesn’t ping over the communicator. 

It does light up as it hovers over his jeans though, and Bucky has a wild moment of terror—does he have something incriminating on him? Did he accidentally end up with a weapon?? Part of his mind reminds him that Steve and Natasha had absolutely refused to allow him to bring anything out of the ordinary but—

He reaches into his pocket, and pulls out what appears to be about forty cents in change, coins clinking in his palm as he shows Willard. 

Willard waves his hand, looking annoyed, and Bucky repockets the change, trying to get his breathing back under control. 

“Wait here,” Willard says, opening the door to a small conference room. 

Bucky steps inside, and the door clicks shut behind him. 

He checks his watch. It’s 9:17. They’ve been inside the compound thirteen minutes. He wonders how fast Natasha usually works. 

He looks at the uncomfortable conference room chairs and thinks he should probably just sit and wait. But he can’t quite, even if it looks suspicious for him to be too nervous to sit. Looking suspicious is what is making him have to pace. Whatever, he’s an active guy—hopefully Richardson doesn’t think anything of it. There’s a security camera mounted in one corner of the ceiling. Bucky tries not to look at it. 

Four more minutes tick by with Bucky alone in the room. Not so long, objectively, but right now it feels like a lifetime. Bucky wonders if you can have a heart attack from stress. His definitely hasn’t slowed down the entire time they’ve been here. Since he’d dropped Steve off at the rendezvous point actually, and the Widow had climbed into the back of his truck. 

The door clicks open again, and Bucky turns at the far end of the conference table to see Richardson’s bland, pale face looking unimpressed. 

“Sit down, Barnes,” he says, pulling out a chair on the opposite side of the table and dropping a stack of files on top of it. He squares the corners, and straightens the silver frames of his glasses on his nose. 

Bucky sits down across from him, schooling his face into something neutral. 

“You wanted a meeting,” Richardson prompts. His tone is as flat and featureless as ever, but a muscle twitches in his temple, a small indication of his irritation—or maybe of something that has nothing to do with Bucky. He can’t be sure. 

Richardson leans back in his chair, palms flat on top of the files. He’s wearing a plain lab coat over his black shirt and slacks. Bucky wonders suddenly, for all the times he’s seen him, if he could really pick Richardson out of a lineup when it came down to it. Stick him with a few other white guys in their 50’s with bored, dark eyes—he’s not sure he could pin him down. 

Bucky takes a deep breath. This part doesn’t really matter, not any more. He just has to buy some time for the rest of them to do what they need to do. 

“I wanted to—just felt like it was time to check in. My half-way on my employment contract is next month, I wanted to—”

“We don’t offer raises mid-contract,” Richardson interjects. 

“Oh, um—okay,” Bucky says. “I was more thinking—wondering how the project is going? I mean—the collection has been going pretty well on my end, I was hoping I could—” 

Richardson shakes his head, and looks at his watch. “We don’t mix employment between collection and analysis. You don’t have clearance for anything aside from what you do already.” 

Bucky feels Richardson’s interest sliding away from him. Pretty soon he’s going to walk back out—and Bucky can’t let him do that yet. He’s not sure how many other senior guys like Richardson there are on site, but if he can keep even one of them here with him, _not_ dealing with whatever might be going on outside—he’s going to try. 

He goes for broke. “Look, Richardson—it’s been going fine out here, but don’t you think you oughta get someone up where it really counts? You could send me to New York, I’m sure there’s still…data to be collected up there, more of what you guys actually need—don’t you think?” 

It does the trick. Richardson fixes him with a cold, blank stare. “What makes you think New York has anything we’d be interested in, Barnes? It isn’t generally a focal point for storm activity.” 

Bucky knows what he’s asking—he wants to know what Bucky knows, or thinks he does. And at this point it doesn’t matter, so he says, recklessly, 

“Because you haven’t been interested in regular storm chasing for months. You want to know what’s ripping up the atmosphere that _isn’t_ the usual. So—New York is where it happened worst.” 

“I see.” 

Bucky has his attention now, and he keeps talking, desperate to hold onto it. “I’m two and a half years in. I’m good, you know I am. If you told me what you actually need, I can stop wasting my—your—time on the useless stuff, right? If you want to tear up buildings and power grids there’s—”

“That’s enough. We’ve already considered you for internal advancement, and we determined that you’re not the right material. If you can’t _handle_ your current workload—”

“_Considered_ me for promotion to walking bomb?” Bucky snarls, unable to help himself. “I’m glad I don’t seem like the right _material_ for whatever shady bullshit—”

“I think I’ve made myself fairly clear about your speculations Barnes,” Richardson cuts in, coolly. But his face has gone, if possible, even more bloodless and pale. “It seems to me that you’re coming dangerously close to violating the terms of our agreement, and if you’re _unhappy_ with the work that you’re doing I can get someone from legal in here to discuss what it would look like for you to try to break your contract ahead of time—and what kind of repayment would be expected for you not completing your end. I can guarantee you won’t enjoy it. And _if_,” he adds, dangerously, “I find that you’ve been in breach of any of the other terms, such as your non-disclosure agreement, I _will_ personally ensure there will be further consequences which I’m sure you’d rather—” 

He breaks off the tepid threat, frowning, and pulls his cell phone out of his pocket. He answers it with a brusque, “Go ahead.” 

Whoever is on the other end of the line doesn’t get the chance to say much, though Bucky can hear that they’re speaking very fast, before Richardson’s black eyes flick up to Bucky, his mouth pulling down angrily. 

“What the fuck have you done?” He hisses, standing from the table fast enough that his chair shoots back. “Listen, Frank, call security, tell them we need—” 

He doesn’t get the chance to finish the sentence—Bucky lunges at him across the table, grabbing wildly for the phone. 

Richardson is too surprised to stop him, and Bucky turns and hurls it as hard as he can at the wall, hearing a dull crack. 

Richardson’s eyes widen with incredulous rage. “Peck, Willar—” he calls, turning toward the door. 

Bucky doesn’t let him finish that either, throwing himself the rest of the way across the conference table into him, knocking the man against the other wall in surprise. Richardson manages another half-strangled yell as Bucky grapples with him, no thought in his mind but just to keep him from calling for help for as many more seconds as he can buy Steve and Natasha to do their work—

Richardson twists underneath him, and manages to pull a small dark object out of his pocket. Bucky grabs for it, instinctively—but it’s too late. 

Richardson clicks it, a line of lights on the side flaring bright blue—

Bucky’s entire body goes stiff, like it does when he’s absorbing a lightning charge. 

He can feel power humming through his left arm, igniting the circuit that grounds his body against electrocution—but it holds him unmoving in place too, his brain blurring with the force running through him. 

Richardson shoves Bucky off of himself, and Bucky falls onto the flat of his back, stiff as a board as the charge continues to pulse on a loop. He’s powerless to move, or to stop the other man from running to the door, sending up the alert he’d been trying to delay. 

When this has happened to him out in the field, when it’s been lightning, it lasted for less than a second. Now, with every cell seized up and firing madly with whatever internal charge is pinning him, not letting up—his brain can’t take it. 

His vision sparks and flares, his teeth are clenched together so hard it feels like they might break, and the tendons in his neck are corded with it—Buck tries to break the hold—but he can’t. 

His mind and vision fizz and burst one more time—and then go dark. 

Bucky wouldn’t have thought that it was possible to be _more_ electrocuted than he is lying prone with a few hundred milliamps of charge running through him on a continuous loop. 

And yet, when he comes-to again, it’s with a sharp, discordant jolt shocking him painfully back to consciousness. Somehow though, whatever just hit him shorts the circuit on Richardson’s device, and he flails momentarily before all of his muscles give out—he melts into the floor feeling like all of his bones are missing. 

“Barnes, you with me?” 

Bucky blinks blearily at the face leaning over him—he notes a fall of red hair around a pale, heart-shaped face, and he recognizes Natasha Romanoff distantly. 

“Bucky,” she says more urgently, patting his cheek firmly, “come on, you with me?”

Her expression is tight, and her hands run over his body, checking him hastily for injuries. Bucky can’t quite manage words yet, but he does groan, and her expression clears some at the sound. 

“I’m going to help you sit up,” she says, sliding her hands under his shoulders and hoisting him into a sitting position. 

Bucky lifts a hand, shaking violently, to rub his eyes, which still seem to be trying to unblur themselves. Down by his feet, he sees Richardson’s unmoving form sprawled over the floor. Beyond him, there’s another black-clad body of one of the guards half-slumped across the doorway. 

“Did you—did we do it?” Bucky asks, his voice barely a rasp. 

Natasha crouches back on her heels beside him, and gives him a brief, fierce smile. 

“We’re doing it. Not out of the woods yet. Can you walk?” She asks, cocking her head like she’s listening. “Actually, a run would be preferable.” 

Bucky’s body feels—well, it feels like he’s been electrocuted. But he nods. No choice but to try, right? 

Natasha stands and offers him a hand up—and Bucky reaches one for her and the other for the edge of the conference table to haul himself into a standing position. He weaves for a moment, and then steadies. He can’t _exactly_ feel his legs like normal, but they seem like they may be willing to do what he tells them. 

“I’ll follow you,” he grates out, clenching his jaw. 

Natasha nods again, “Good man. You see anyone I don’t, give me a shout. I locked down all the security doors so this building should be pretty much contained but—you never know.” 

She moves to the door, checking the hallway as she unclips a handgun from the belt of her black uniform. 

She turns back to Bucky, and jerks her head toward the hallway. “Let’s go,” she whispers. 

Bucky steps over Richardson’s body—he only resists the urge to give him a kick because he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have the coordination for it, and he needs his legs to get him to wherever they’re headed. 

The bright, white hall is deserted, but Bucky can hear an alarm blaring from some deeper reaches of the facility as they make their way back the direction they’d initially come from. Natasha keeps glancing over her shoulder, checking on him, and Bucky does his best to keep up without looking like he might fall at any moment. 

There are more bodies sprawled around the doorway to the research bay where they’d left the truck, and Bucky sees evidence of Natasha’s widow bites on them. 

“Can you drive?” Natasha asks as they enter the strangely silent research bay, where Bucky’s truck sits abandoned—driver’s door open. Half of the equipment that usually sits hulking in the back of it has been offloaded, but the process was clearly interrupted by the discovery of a spy-assassin in the back. 

“I think so,” Bucky says. If he can walk, he can drive, he reasons. Probably. 

“Tell me if you can’t—but one of us needs to drive and one of us needs to shoot and I’d rather it be me with the gun, if you can handle it.” 

“Give me the keys,” Bucky replies, trying to square his shoulders. 

Natasha steps nimbly over an unconscious guard, to the limp figure of the woman in the lab coat, and plucks the keys from her pocket. She tosses them to Bucky, who commands his arms to raise at the last moment to catch them, albeit awkwardly. 

Bucky levers himself into the driver’s seat, the distance from the ground feeling much higher than it normally does. Natasha vaults over the hood and slips into the passenger seat, immediately checking over the contents of her utility belt, taking inventory, as Bucky sticks the key in the ignition, the engine humming soothingly to life. 

“Back out of here, take a left around this building into the compound,” she says, grimly. “I think Steve could use a ride right about now.” 

The mention of Steve and the implication that he might be in trouble clears some of the lingering cobwebs from Bucky’s brain. He throws the truck into reverse, trundling as fast as he can down the ramp and out into the cool, black night air. 

He follows Natasha’s direction, speeding as quick as he can around the corner of the building on the packed, desert earth. 

Beside him, Natasha pulls out her phone and starts tapping hurriedly at the bright little square of the screen. 

“I’m going to let Shield know they need to send a task force out. But it would probably be good if we aren’t here by the time they arrive to clean up—they’re not going to be thrilled about it and it’d be better for you to meet Fury for the first time when he’s in a good mood.” 

There’s a massive surge of sound, and over the top of the next set of low buildings the skyline is suddenly illuminated by a burst of fiery light exploding across it. 

“That’ll be Steve,” Natasha says, unnecessarily. 

Bucky presses hard on the accelerator and aims for the edge of the buildings. 

As they come around the end of them, the scene ahead is seething and chaotic in comparison to the rest of the quiet stillness of the compound. Bucky’s truck isn’t the only vehicle converging on the scene, and groups of Blackstone guards are running toward it as well. 

“We’re lucky they don’t actually have these storm-soldier-whatever-the-hells ready to go or this would be a lot bigger mess,” Natasha remarks, eyes scanning the swarms of black-uniformed Blackstone guards. Bucky cringes—he hadn’t really thought about it. Squads of muscle-y goons have been bad enough.

“Keep driving,” Natasha says, “head to the far edge on the left and keep an eye out for Steve. I may have to make a pit stop—don’t wait for me.” 

Bucky glances over at her in confusion, but she’s already got the window of the truck down. She pulls herself lithely through it, up onto the top of the cab. 

“Don’t slow down!” She yells back through the window—and then she’s gone. 

Bucky sets his eyes grimly ahead again, and steps harder on the gas pedal, pulling the wheel toward the far end of the long building, now engulfed in flame. 

A small cluster of Blackstone guards turn when they hear the truck approaching, the man in point position raising his sidearm and shouting some kind of order that Bucky can’t hear—either at Bucky or his fellow guards. Bucky yanks the wheel to speed around them, trying not to think about getting shot at. 

It turns out he doesn’t need to worry about it—three of them go down, connected by taser wires, distracting the other two. Bucky can hear a loud thump on the roof of the truck as Natasha repositions herself. 

Bucky tries to focus on driving. That’s all he has to do—his _one_ job. 

There’s a blinding flash of light from the burning compound—not the yellow-orange of flames, but something Bucky recognizes much more chillingly from his storm chasing, a blue and purple crackle over the top of the fire. A roll of thunder answers it, as if it were a real storm made by clouds and atmospheric pressures, even though the sky above them is clear of anything but stars. A gust of wind pulls at the truck, and Bucky has to fight the wheel to keep it moving the direction he’d intended. 

Steve had been successful, evidently, in detonating the production line—but it looks like that’s going to cause some complications of its own, and soon. 

The wind kicks up a swirl of dirt and debris, partially obscuring the Blackstone henchmen from Bucky’s vision, and Bucky grits his teeth as another deafening boom of thunder shakes the cab. 

They’re almost to the center of the chaos now, the tongues of flame and growing forks of lightning looming above them when Bucky sees a figure running at full tilt, faster than most people should be able to run. _Steve_.

He’s got the shield, and he turns, still running, to hurl it at a dark shape behind him—advancing fast. 

Bucky sees what it is as the shield slams through the windshield of the open army jeep, which careens more wildly after Steve now. Steve reverses his direction, leaping onto the hood of it and seizing the shield again. He throws a punch at the guard in the passenger seat who’s still with-it enough to point a gun at him. 

A second jeep plunges toward them, out of the unnatural swirl of dirt and ash, headed right for Steve. Two guys in the back are standing, a massive gun between them pointed at him as he lowers the shield in front of himself, bracing for it.

Bucky doesn’t think—he slams the accelerator all the way to the floor, and points the truck straight at the jeep. 

He braces enough for the impact enough to not slam face first into the steering wheel. Two airbags go off in the empty passenger seat, but nothing on his side, and he thinks, distantly and a little hysterically, that he should probably get that checked one of these days. 

The truck, Bucky’s beloved truck, is one of those classic, American steel behemoths. And while he’s always loved the solid look of it, he’s never been more grateful for it than he is right now as the jeep goes flying in a wrenching screech of metal, and its four passengers with it. Bucky slams on the brakes, sliding to a stop, pushing the mangled body of the jeep in front of them. The truck’s engine makes an unhappy growling sound—but it doesn’t give out. 

Bucky rolls down his window and shoves his head out of it. Steve is standing now just behind where they’ve skidded to a stop, lowering his shield with a bemused look. 

“Come the fuck on _Steve_,” Bucky’s shouts, waving his arm at him. “We have to get out of here you absolute idiot!” 

Steve grins, and sprints for the truck, hurtling himself into the bed and slapping his hand on the side. 

“Let’s go!” He shouts. He turns back around, squaring his shoulders to face the next group of goons coming up on their tail. 

Bucky reverses, and clenches his teeth at another ugly sound of twisting metal before the front of the truck lets go of the overturned jeep. Then he pulls the wheel hard to the right, away from the crumbling building and whatever unearthly storm is brewing above it—out across the clear desert earth and into the inky black night. 

Natasha slips gracefully back in through the window, her hair ruffled and one shoulder of her uniform singed, but otherwise looking unbothered. 

“There’ll be a perimeter fence in about a hundred yards,” she says. “I think you can take it—don’t brake.” 

Bucky’s not sure he needs the advice—the fence rises out of the darkness too quickly for him to have reacted much anyway. He ploughs ahead, and there’s more gut-wrenching scraping and grinding as the truck crashes through. But it’s only chain link out here, since they don’t care about whatever sensors they might set off. It breaks away in front of them, the tires pummeling it into the dirt before leaving it behind entirely. 

In front of them, the dark blue expanse of flat desert is broken suddenly in a few places by spotlights, moving at speed overhead, past them toward Blackstone. 

“That’ll be Shield,” Natasha says, peering up through the windshield at the helicopters. She puts her hand to her ear. “Clint, you’ve got Shield incoming, go ahead and evacuate if you can—we’re good here.” 

“Will he be okay?” Bucky asks, frowning. He’d forgotten they still had someone inside. He slows down a little, realizing his hands are once again shaking convulsively. 

Natasha shrugs, unconcerned. “He’ll be fine. But it’ll be less enjoyable to get stuck debriefing Fury before he calms down. He’ll skedaddle if he can, now that Shield will take over and lock it down. Anyway, he’s Fury’s favorite so better him than me.” 

“Are you guys—will you be in trouble? For this?” 

Natasha gives him a close, sideways smile, and relaxes a little down into the seat. “Slap on the wrist, maybe. But when Captain America gives you a mission can you really take too much heat for backing him up?” 

“Oh,” Bucky says, wishing his processing speed was at full capacity. “Will _Steve_ be in trouble?” 

Natasha shrugs again. “Maybe. Probably something like ‘I’m not mad I’m disappointed’ or a lecture on using the proper channels in the future from the higher ups.” She looks at Bucky, thoughtfully. “Can you guess how much Steve’s going to cry himself to sleep over that?” 

Bucky laughs, weakly. Natasha smiles again. 

“We did good work tonight, Barnes. Thanks to you. It needed to happen. How it happened—that’ll come out in the wash. Don’t worry too much about the red tape.” She shifts in the seat, looking around, and adds, “Head to the right up here. Should hook up with the highway pretty soon.”

Bucky does as he’s told. 

By the time Natasha has directed him to where Selvig has the van parked, on a small gravel turnout off the mostly deserted highway, all of the mad energy that Bucky had mustered to keep him alert and alive through the final frantic minutes of the drive has abandoned him. 

He barely has the coordination to put the truck in park and wrestle the keys out of the ignition. 

Natasha climbs out as his eyes strain to close, despite his feeble attempts to marshal just a little bit more focus. But he can’t quite bring himself to open the door and get out of the truck. Every cell in him is screaming for rest after the ordeal. 

No—his cells were screaming fifteen minutes ago, now it’s more apt to say that they have opted to mutiny against his leadership, and they’re going to take the rest they need whether he likes it or not. He manages to command his hand to reach for the handle—but no more than that. 

The door opens anyway, and Bucky almost falls out of it, but for Steve’s strong, solid arms catching him. 

“Bucky, are you okay? Do you need the hospital?” Steve asks, voice low and urgent. 

Bucky shakes his head, and lets Steve haul him up to stand—but he immediately slumps against the side of the truck, his legs not quite up to the job on their own. 

“We—we almost finished?” Bucky asks, trying to focus on Steve’s face. He can tell it’s concerned, but his eyes close again before he can determine more than that. 

“Yeah Buck, we’re done,” Steve says, “you’re done. You did so good.”

Steve’s voice is gentle and soothing, and Bucky might not need any kind of lullaby to encourage him right now, but Steve’s words act as one anyway. For the first time in hours, Bucky feels his heart rate recede into something steady, and he breathes a deep, fresh lungful of crisp air. 

“Nat,” Steve says, a little louder, voice humming through his chest, where Bucky suddenly finds he has somehow rested his head. “Can you take care of Selvig and checking in with Barton? I’ve gotta—Bucky—”

“Go on Rogers, I got it. Hill already has it contained—the site _and_ Fury, for the moment. We don’t need you guys for this part. Get your guy somewhere he can lie down.” 

“M’fine Steve,” Bucky tries, valiantly, even though he hears how his words are slurring with exhaustion. “M’not a baby, you don’t have to—” 

“Shh,” Steve says, hushing him exactly like he’s a baby. 

Or maybe like he’s an invalid, which isn’t actually that far off the mark right now. There hadn’t been time for Bucky to worry about the damage Richardson’s sustained charge had done to his body before, and maybe there’s not time now either, but it doesn’t seem to matter. His knees are quivering traitorously. Bucky blinks and lifts his left hand, vision swimming, but he sees that there are angry, hairline burns running up the back of it, snaking over his wrist and up under the sleeve of his flannel—tracing the lines where he realizes the threads of metal under the skin must have seared him. He groans quietly. 

Steve follows his gaze, his face hardening when he catches sight of the evidence of Bucky’s injuries. 

“Right,” he says, “we’re going. I’m getting you out of here.” 

Bucky tries to shake his head, but it ends up just lolling uselessly against Steve’s chest. 

Steve hooks one arm behind his back, and the other under his knees, lifting him. Bucky can’t even bring himself to hold on. 

His eyes are closed as Steve deposits him in the passenger seat, and he tries one more time to tell them to open as Steve fishes the keys out of his pocket—but he’s used up the last of his demands, apparently, because they stay shut. Steve buckles the seatbelt across him. 

Steve’s arms disappear, and the door shuts. He reappears at Bucky’s other side, sliding into the driver seat, and firing up the engine—the truck starts with a long whine and a heavy grumble that Bucky relates to deeply. 

“Steve,” Bucky says, or tries to say. It doesn’t quite come out. He tries again, “Steve?” 

Steve’s hand grips Bucky’s shoulder, and his other smooths the hair away from Bucky’s face. “Yeah Buck?” 

Bucky’s voice comes from very far away, but he can’t—he won’t let himself pass out before he asks. He needs to know before they go wherever it is they’re going to next. 

“We’re still not done—” his voice cracks, “you’re not done knowing me yet, right?” 

Steve laughs softly, deep in his chest, and Bucky feels his lips ghost across his cheek. 

“No,” he says in Bucky’s ear. “I’m not done with that.” 

His breath is warm on Bucky’s cheek, and he presses his forehead to Bucky’s temple. 

“Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

Bucky wants to respond—but Steve is right. It can wait. 

With that knowledge as permission Bucky stops fighting himself, feeling like his body is melting into the seat as he lets go of that final grain of worry keeping him awake. 

When he does, it feels like relief—with Steve behind the wheel, promising to take care of him—it feels like safety.

He’s unconscious before he even feels the truck pull back onto the highway.

*

**Early Summer, Oregon Coast**

Steve closes his eyes, letting the salty air dance across his face, slipping cool fingers under the collar of his jacket and ruffling his hair. 

He opens them again, squinting against the breeze, out across the sparkling expanse of ocean spread out in front of them. On the cliffs like this, it almost feels like he’s standing on the edge of the world—if he doesn’t look to his left or right, the shore disappears, his whole eye line filled with nothing but the glittering sea, the seam where it meets the blue horizon only visible thanks to the sun sinking toward it. 

He sighs, deeply, contentment settling into his bones. 

“That good huh?” Bucky asks, quietly. 

Steve grins and turns to him, nodding. Bucky is watching him with a soft, thoughtful expression on his face. 

“It’s weird, right?” Steve asks, “Seeing the sun setting on it, instead of rising?” 

Bucky’s mouth quirks up sideways, and he shrugs. “I’ll be honest I don’t think I ever was awake to see it rise when I lived on the other coast.” He flicks his glance out at the view. “But it is really fucking pretty.” 

Steve laughs, tugging Bucky to him to wrap his arms around him. 

After a few leisurely weeks of winding their way between mountains and deserts and grassland, today they finally reached the Pacific. 

They’ve seen a lot in those weeks—country that made Steve’s heart ache with the beauty, and ache again to be seeing it not alone, like he’d planned all those nights ago when he’d left New York, but with someone whose hand he has yet to get tired of being allowed to hold. Bucky’s teased him plenty, when he’s gotten overly-enthused about things like rivers and canyons and trees. But Bucky also disappeared one morning four days in and returned with a sketchbook and a set of watercolors from the craft store, and he’s caught Bucky looking misty-eyed more than once too. 

“Should we go look for food?” Bucky asks, tipping his face up. “You must be getting hungry.” 

Steve smiles again, fondly. Since they’ve been on the road without any deadlines, Bucky hasn’t let a single stretch of hours go by without making sure Steve is fed exactly on schedule. 

“Yeah,” Steve says, burying his nose in Bucky’s hair. “What kinda place should we try to stay tonight?” 

“I think,” Bucky says, pausing with a thoughtful hum. “I think we should look for a totally disgusting B&B, the kind where an old lady brings you extra pillows and serves cookies in the afternoon. Because we definitely can’t move up the coast until we’ve spent at least three days where you just get to gaze at the ocean like that and wax poetic at me about natural wonders. What do you say?” 

Steve laughs. “Maybe I’ll do you a portrait, gazing out at the sea like an intrepid explorer.” 

“Excellent,” Bucky says, grinning. His color is high from the sea breeze, several strands of his hair falling loose around his face, pulled from his bun by the wind. “Better do it soon before I gain a hundred pounds from cookies and as much seafood as I can handle.” 

“Mmm,” Steve says, tipping his face down to kiss Bucky’s full, perfect mouth. Bucky smiles against his lips before leaning into it, winding his arms tight around Steve’s waist so that their chests are pressed tight together. 

They break apart, and Steve gives a final look out at the ocean before wrapping Bucky’s hand in his and turning his back on it to walk back through the trees toward the truck. 

The new fender and grill are gleaming in the dying sunlight, though the old paint around the front of it still shows the chips and scrapes from its trials in Santa Fe. They’d been willing to wait the couple of days for the repairs it needed to get them the rest of the way across the country, but Bucky had declared he didn’t care about the paint job. 

“Let her have her war wounds, Steve,” he’d said, “she earned them.” 

Bucky’s own war wounds had taken some time to heal. He’d slept, dead to the world in their hotel room, for a day and a half before waking enough for them to talk about what had happened—and what their options were going forward. Even after that, he’d spent another three mostly in the room, napping frequently, his body recuperating from what had been done to it at Blackstone, with Steve acting as a worried, hovering nurse the entire time. 

Eventually though, the livid red of his burns had faded to pink, and he’d begun to move a little less stiffly. Steve had wished he could have lent Bucky some of his healing speed, feeling guilty every time Bucky climbed out of bed, wincing at the effort. But the body—even regular, human bodies—is amazing in its capacity to recover. And Steve had contented himself with the fact that Bucky hadn’t sustained more damage than he had, that the hurt done to him would fade on its own, given enough time. 

And when they’d been ready to make plans, they’d realized that their options, which before had seemed so hemmed in by circumstance, were suddenly only as limited as their ability to imagine them. 

“Am I going to—Shield will want to talk to me, won’t they?” Bucky had asked, wearily, when he’d been awake enough to sit up in bed and drink some tea. 

Steve, who’d already faced his dressing down by Fury while Bucky was asleep, had shaken his head firmly. “I told you I’d keep the heat off you. If they do, it’ll be whenever we feel like going back—if we do at all.” 

“And Blackstone? Did we—?” 

“It’s over, Bucky. You’re free.”

Bucky’s face had crumpled, in a mixture of relief and disbelief that Steve understood well, and Steve had held him, delicately in deference to his abused muscles, until he had cried it out. 

They’d decided that—for a little while, at least—they didn’t want to decide. That they’d get the truck fixed and set back out on Steve’s Great American Roadtrip, and that the only choices they’d make for a while would be which offramps to take, where to eat, when to sleep, and what music to listen to as they did. 

It had been a good decision, Steve thinks, climbing into the passenger seat. They’ve spent long, uncomplicated days getting to know one another—and brilliant nights tangled up with each other, doing the same. Falling asleep with Bucky's face on the pillow next to him, and waking up to it too.

Every day, Steve thinks, looking over at Bucky’s face, backed by the flare of the setting sun as they wind up the coast into the little nearby town, he’s falling a little more in love with Bucky Barnes. 

He hasn’t said it yet, in so many words. But he’s felt it growing inside his chest, like a slow-blooming flower opening in the sun. 

Bucky glances over at him, his mouth turning up at the corners. 

“What are you thinking about?” 

Steve shakes his head, smiling. There’s time for that—for visions and revisions and whatever they choose next. 

So he just says, “Thinking about whether I’ll be able to convince you to watch a sunrise, next time we’re on the Atlantic.” 

Bucky snorts, and cranes his head to check the road before merging onto the main highway. 

“If you want to set yourself up for success, I can tell you you’ll have more luck trying to get me to stay awake _until_ it comes up, and go to bed after—getting me _out_ of bed that early isn’t going to go well for you.” 

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Steve says, settling back into his seat. “You think—you think we’ll go back any time soon?” 

Selvig had called, a few days after they’d left Santa Fe, and told them that he was going to be taking on the project of unraveling Blackstone’s research—and of trying to determine what good might be made of it, instead of what they’d used it for. He’d asked Bucky to join him, offered him a spot as a real research assistant—_not_ just because he’d been employed with Blackstone, he’d said, but because Bucky had shown an intelligent understanding of the forces he’d been harnessing. 

Bucky had demurred. “I don’t even have a college degree, Steve,” he’d said, looking unhappily self-conscious. 

“Didn’t hear him ask for your CV Buck,” Steve had replied, staunchly. 

He hadn’t pushed it then, but he has brought it up a few times—gently challenging Bucky’s self-doubt about his abilities. Privately, he thinks that if Bucky wants to take the job there’d be no one more capable of the work. But he mostly just wants Bucky to feel like he’s got choices, and to do whatever makes him happy. 

Now, Bucky hums thoughtfully. “Dunno. Maybe I’ll convince Selvig to move his work to the West Coast. He’d probably be happy not to have Stark within meddling distance at all times anyway.” 

Steve raises his eyebrows. It’s the closest Bucky’s come to something like a confirmation that he might want to take the spot, eventually. 

“I think you’re right. Just got to stay away from Malibu, or we’ll be in the same spot.” 

Bucky laughs. “I like it up here—maybe head up to Washington even. It’s moody, and I like the rain. Can’t give up on good storms completely, right?” He shoots a look at Steve. “How about you? You itching to get your boots back on the New York city streets?” 

Steve shakes his head, comfortably. “Not even a little. Think I’m gonna stick with you for a while yet, that okay?” 

Bucky reaches over without taking his eyes off the road, scooping up Steve’s hand in his own and squeezing it. 

“I’m not sure there’s going to be a time,” he says, slowly, “when I’m done knowing you, Steve Rogers.” 

Steve swallows, and twines his fingers more tightly with Bucky’s as they come around a corner in the curving road. And once again the sun breaks through the trees—the ragged, rocky cliffs tumbling alongside the highway ahead of them, and the wide expanse of the golden Pacific beyond.

“In that case,” Steve says, “keep driving—and let’s find out what’s at the end of this road.” 

Bucky smiles over at him, his eyes crinkled, and chews on his bottom lip. His eyes search Steve’s face for a moment, maybe hearing all the ways Steve means it beyond what a map might tell them. 

“If I had to guess, I’d probably say where this one ends, we’ll just find another one to start on.” 

Steve lifts Bucky’s hand, and drops a kiss on his knuckles. 

“That sounds about perfect,” he says.

And it is. 

art by HeyBoy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _It's hard to let the miles pass me by_   
_Yellow lines that blend together in my eyes_   
_And when the seasons change again then I will too_   
_I just want to be closer to you_
> 
> Closer to You, Brandi Carlisle
> 
> Thank you so much everyone who has read and commented!! I hope this ending gave you the warm fuzzies and wrapped us up right.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/odetteandodile)! 
> 
> As always I burn, I pine, I perish for your comments, so let me know what you are feeling!!


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